THE   BEACON 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE   HAVEN 
WILD   FRUIT 
demeter's  DAUGHTER 
THE   THIEF  OF  VIRTUE 
TALES  OF  THE  TENEMENTS 


THE   BEACON 


BY 

EDEN    PHILLPOTTS 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

MCMXI 


Copyright,  1911 
By  EDEN  PH1LLP0TTS 


»  I  1 


5; 


THE   BEACON 


a 


a 


THE  BEACON 

BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  I 

SPRINGING  directly  from  the  lowland  marches, 
with  never  a  foothill  to  break  her  northern  steeps, 
Cosdon,  that  great  frontier  height  of  Dartmoor,  al- 
most assumes  the  noble  contour  of  a  mountain.  High 
Willes  and  Yes  Tor,  Fur  Tor,  and  Great  Mis  soar 
nearer  to  the  blue,  and  ascend  above  all  earth  piled 
southerly  of  Snowdon,  while  other  hills  and  uplifted 
wastes  of  the  tableland  are  only  a  little  lower  than 
they ;  but  Cosdon  Beacon's  immense  and  far-flung  arc, 
seen  featureless  against  the  southern  sky,  arrests  and 
challenges  among  the  needles  and  turrets  of  the  tors 
by  reason  of  its  distinction,  its  difference  and  its 
might. 

From  Hoga  de  Cossdonne,  when  the  third  Henry 
reigned,  there  set  forth  trusty  perambulators  to  define 
the  bounds,  metes,  precincts  of  the  Royal  Forest,  and 
all  future  topography  of  the  district  was  built  upon 
their  labour.  From  here,  too,  prehistoric  man  looked 
over  the  lowlands  in  fear  and  hope.  Mediaeval  monu- 
ments are  few  upon  this  hill,  but  the  neolith  has  left 
many  a  mark  scribbled  in  stone  and  still  enduring. 

Cosdon  links  present  with  past  after  the  manner  of 
mountains  and  inviolate  waste  places.  For  a  jewel 
in  her  diadem  of  cairns  she  holds  the  dust  of  remote 
dead ;  from  her  bosom  to-day  she  gives  welcome  and 
yields  warmth  to  those  who,  still  dwarfed  within  the 

7 


8  THE  BEACON 

stature  of  the  living,  struggle  around  her  feet  and 
pass  their  moment  beneath  her  shadow.  Here  lie 
hamlets,  with  little  trembling  fingers  of  roads  lifted 
to  the  Beacon.  They  creep  tentatively  towards  her, 
now  vanish  in  the  woodlands  that  rise  about  her  knees ; 
now  climb,  with  many  a  halt  and  hindrance,  onward 
beyond  all  boundaries  to  the  naked  sweep  of  her  as- 
cension. 

A  river  skirts  the  western  faces  of  Cosdon;  while 
to  the  south  she  breaks  into  lesser  hills  and  flows  out 
by  the  undulations  of  Metheral,  Hound  Tor,  and  Ken- 
non  upon  midmost  Moor.  Eastward  her  approaches 
to  the  land  of  farm  and  fallow  are  also  gradual,  for 
there  lie  the  great  swamp  of  Raybarrow  and  the  Com- 
mons of  Throwleigh  and  Tawton;  but  northerly  she 
leaps  sheer  aloft,  flings  off  a  forest  like  a  garment  and 
towers  to  the  high  places  of  her  dead. 

Earth  holds  no  deeper  loneliness  than  that  upon  a 
mountain's  summit.  Such  secret  places  are  hidden 
from  the  valleys  and  the  lesser  hills ;  the  shoulders  that 
sustain  them  know  them  not.  They  appear  only  to 
their  peers  and  the  noonday  sun,  to  the  full  moon  and 
the  southing  stars.  Cosdon's  high  top  is  thus  seques- 
tered, and  from  it  the  prehistoric  people,  with  bonfire 
or  balefire,  sent  messages  of  good  or  evil  through  the 
night  to  the  Beacon's  giant  kindred  of  the  four  quar- 
ters. Their  tidings  leapt  flame  on  flame  from  the 
cressets  of  Buckland  and  Pen  to  the  sea,  by  Kit  Hill 
and  Carrodon  to  Cornwall,  over  the  barrows  to  Ex- 
moor,  to  Dunkery  and  the  Mendips.  Those  fiery  em- 
bassies of  joy  or  woe  woke  remote  lodges  of  the  stone 
heroes,  sent  the  fighting  men  to  their  weapons,  and 
herded  the  women  together,  while  screams  or  laugh- 
ter set  necklaces  of  wolf's  teeth  chattering  on  their 
bosoms  and  the  babies  crying  in  their  arms.  So 
flashed  the  fall  of  Troy  to  Agamemnon's  queen — 
"  Joy's  herald,  through  the  darkness  gleaming." 

Her  sides  and  slopes  are  a  playground  for  light  and 


THE  BEACON  9 

darkness  and  a  theatre  for  storms.  They  bear  the 
burden  of  a  snow  argosy  upon  their  shoulders ;  spread 
a  bosom  as  wide  as  the  diamond  arch  of  the  light- 
ning; support  both  feet  of  a  rainbow;  display  the  full 
pageant  and  procession  of  the  seasons. 

Yet  Cosdon's  immensity  is  compressed  within  a 
space  but  small.  It  is  apparent  rather  than  real ;  for 
Nature  has  built  her,  rounded  her  and  ordered  her  up- 
rising with  such  adjustment  of  cunning  architecture 
that  the  hill's  dimensions,  in  their  perfection  of  pro- 
portion and  balance,  imply  an  amplitude  that  they  do 
not  possess.  The  mount,  while  within  compass  of  the 
wayfarer's  daily  pilgrimage,  yet  attains  to  a  sublimity 
and  asserts  a  vastness  beyond  man's  senses  to  refute, 
though  within  the  measuring-rod's  power  to  deny. 
Similarly  do  human  achievements,  in  the  lifting  of 
stone  on  stone,  depend  not  upon  size  for  their  glory 
or  height  for  their  fame.  A  Parthenon — that  marble 
song  of  victory  and  gratitude — dwarfs  to  dust  the 
mightier  temples  of  succeeding  ages,  whose  religion 
lifted  its  fanes  and  its  prayers  alike  under  the  menace 
of  a  retributive  eternity. 

Little  brooks  gush  out  from  the  hill  to  swell  larger 
rivers  beneath,  and  there  are  many  water  springs 
within  her ;  for  armature  she  has  the  granite ;  her  ves- 
ture is  the  great  and  lesser  furze,  brake  fern  and 
heath.  Marsh  flowers  adorn  her  and  the  fragrant 
shrub  that  haunts  water.  Her  jewels,  the  sphagna 
mosses,  make  light  by  spring  and  mire ;  they  gleam, 
there  in  emerald  and  pale  gold,  here  with  orange  and 
the  colour  of  red  wine.  Cotton  grass  nods  its  pearls, 
and  the  seeding  rush  enriches  every  bog  with  russet 
and  tawny. 

In  springtime  there  spread  green  grasses  all  spat- 
tered and  ruled  and  ring-streaked  with  the  granite's 
cobweb  grey.  Now  the  alignments  and  reaves,  the 
cairns  and  hut-circles,  vanish  under  growing  hillocks 
of  heather,  and  presently  they  reappear,  after  swaling 


10  THE  BEACON 

fires  have  shorn  away  the  herbage.  In  summer  the 
heath  smiles  and  the  rolling  leagues  of  it  sing  and 
shine  out  their  highest  colour  music.  With  autumn 
and  the  sere,  the  stones  turn  blue  against  the  fiery 
splendour  of  fern,  and  many  another  ring  and  ridge, 
only  less  fleeting  than  those  left  behind  by  man,  take 
their  punctual  places.  Then  glimmer  the  hooded  and 
cowled  fungi,  and  springs  burst  from  their  secret  foun- 
tains to  furrow  lines  of  silver  down  the  slopes.  In 
winter  the  snow  buries  all  again,  or  frost  freezes  deep 
into  the  hill  so  that  animation  is  suspended.  Only 
the  wind  moves  then  and  man  and  beast  shrink  from 
facing  its  terrific  breath.  Incarnate  Cosdon  and  its 
spirit  belongs  to  light  rather  than  darkness.  Unlike 
some  haunts  of  eld  she  has  a  heartening,  welcoming 
genius  within  her.  She  is  not  tender,  though  she  can 
smile ;  she  is  not  gentle,  though  she  opens  her  bosom 
to  the  dead ;  but  gloomy  she  is  not ;  melancholy  she  is 
not;  despondent  she  is  never.  Rather  she  offers  a 
tonic  and  a  discipline  from  her  high  places;  her  se- 
verity is  serene ;  her  own  obedience  to  Nature  she  ex- 
acts again  from  all  lesser  things.  She  does  not  brood 
or  yearn  or  repine;  she  murmurs  of  no  pain,  nor  la- 
ments her  ages  of  endurance.  She  is  the  haunt  of 
earliest  and  latest  light.  She  welcomes  the  dawn  and 
echoes  dayspring  from  her  crest  of  stones ;  she  signals 
back  to  the  sunset  its  final  fire;  she  treasures  the 
earliest  tremor  of  the  foreglow,  and  of  the  afterglow 
the  last.  In  high  summer  she  scarcely  sleeps,  but 
records  on  her  grey  crown  the  faint  pulse  and  ashy 
glimmer  of  the  sun  creeping  northerly  under  the  hills 
upon  his  way  to  the  east.  She  hides  herself  indeed, 
but  it  is  in  light  oftener  than  darkness  that  she  hides, 
and  then,  having  communed  with  grey  and  silver 
mists,  or  the  depth  of  storm  clouds — dark  by  com- 
parison with  the  upper  air,  but  all  light  against  her 
own  purple  bosom — forth  she  comes  again,  and  un- 
furls and  emerges  out  of  her  hidden  hour,  as  a  vestal 


THE  BEACON  11 

from  vigil.  She  is  secluded  for  high  purposes ;  she 
is  not  austere  but  simple ;  there  is  a  homeliness  about 
her,  a  rough  and  drastic  understanding,  an  elemental 
shrewdness.  The  mother-wit  of  mother  earth  belongs 
to  her;  nor  will  she  be  found  wanting  in  spirit  of  sym- 
pathy for  the  creatures  that  creep  to  her  and  call  her 
home. 

Her  tenants  are  birds  and  beasts;  her  visitors, 
beasts  and  men.  Curlew  and  plover,  heathlarks  and 
small  birds  of  prey  abound  about  her;  foxes  and  lesser 
animals  have  their  holts  and  burrows  within  her ;  sheep 
and  cattle,  horses  and  ponies  throng  her  sides ;  and 
man  pilfers  fuel  from  her,  or  scratches  deeper  for 
more  precious  things.  But  few  indelible  scars  re- 
main ;  her  wounds  heal  quicklier  than  the  generations 
pass  that  made  them;  swiftlier  than  the  bilberry  heals 
after  its  harvest  has  been  plucked  away  by  beaks  and 
fingers. 

Certain  epichorial  legends,  as  of  dancing  stones  and 
the  Black  Hunter,  belong  to  the  Beacon ;  but  no  par- 
ticular stories  have  been  gleaned ;  her  history  is  not 
knit  into  local  folklore  and  traditions,  and  she  has 
no  special  sanctities.  And  yet  we  may  find  her  a 
close  if  unconscious  influence  on  many  lives  that  have 
been  and  are  to  be ;  we  imagine  her  as  the  eternal 
companion  of  our  race — a  creature  that  was  before 
we  were,  that  will  persist  long  after  we  are  not.  We 
regard  her  as  the  very  symbol  and  index  of  endurance ; 
we  cannot  feel  that  she  is  pervious,  penetrable,  per- 
ishing as  the  animated  dust  that  peeps  about  her. 

Nevertheless  she,  too,  sinks  surely ;  and  though  man 
fails  to  mark  it,  as  he  fails  to  mark  the  passage  of  the 
stars,  or  their  altered  relations,  or  their  diminution 
of  fire  upon  the  firmament,  yet  every  moment  leaves 
sensible  impression  on  the  Beacon ;  and  at  the  last 
her  might  and  permanence  amount  to  no  more  than 
the  sun-set  dance  of  midges  by  her  water-ways  or  the 
melting  glitter  of  a  snow   crystal   on   her    forehead. 


12  THE  BEACON 

Cronos  devours  all  his  children  indifferently,  and  this 
gracious  hill,  with  those  who  come  and  go  thereon, 
offers  only  another  crumbling  testimony  to  the  truth 
that  matter  alone  is  eternal,  but  no  form  of  it;  that 
the  stars  of  heaven  and  the  mountains  of  earth  are 
but  sparks  and  smoke  before  the  face  of  everlasting 
time. 


CHAPTER  II 

THERE  was  a  barmaid  in  a  small  London  hotel 
who,  wearying  of  life  among  the  streets,  sought 
to  change  it.  A  man  frequented  her  place  of  service 
because  he  cared  for  her,  and  he  came  from  Devon- 
shire and  was  familiar  with  the  county.  He  told  her 
about  it  and  fired  her  mind  with  tales  of  its  beauty, 
so  that  when  there  came  from  the  west  country  an 
offer  of  such  work  as  she  was  contented  to  do  in  the 
world,  she  made  application.  Her  credentials  were 
good ;  she  gained  the  post  and  left  London.  Many 
felt  sorry  to  see  the  last  of  her;  not  a  few,  who  knew 
something  of  her  spirit,  energy  and  tastes,  foretold 
that  work  in  a  village  inn  at  Dartmoor  edge  would 
not  suffice  to  fill  her  life  for  a  month. 

Elisabeth  Densham  was  twenty-three,  and  save  for 
two  brothers  in  Canada  and  a  sister,  a  waitress  in  a 
London  eating-house,  she  possessed  no  near  relations. 
Orphaned  at  sixteen  she  had  fought  her  own  battle 
against  some  odds,  with  the  added  handicap  of 
beauty.  But  Sarah  Densham,  who  was  ten  years 
older  than  Elisabeth,  had  helped  to  steer  the  younger 
by  strait  paths.  The  girl  had  not  known  passion,  or 
met  the  man  who  could  waken  it.  She  was  clever, 
thoughtful  and  of  a  high  spirit.  She  cared  for  read- 
ing and  possessed  some  imagination.  She  and  her 
sister  had  been  born  in  the  country,  and  while  the 
elder  desired  not  to  return  to  it,  Elisabeth  now  felt 
glad  to  do  so. 

She  was  upon  the  way  and  sat  at  the  window  of  a 
third-class  carriage  on  the  South-Western  Railway. 
The  train  had  carried  her  from  Waterloo,  and  would 
presently  bring  her  to  Okehampton. 

13 


14  THE  BEACON 

She  was  dressed  in  a  dark  blue  skirt  and  jacket,  and 
wore  beneath  the  latter  a  blouse  of  white  linen.  At 
her  throat  was  a  little  pearl  brooch,  and  her  straw 
hat  was  perched  on  a  fine  mound  of  dark  brown  hair. 
This  beauty  she  wore  in  the  style  of  her  class,  divided 
into  three  portions,  of  which  two  were  brought  about 
her  ears,  and  the  third  spread  upon  the  crown.  The 
carriage  was  hot,  for  it  had  roasted  all  day  under  an 
August  sun.  She  wiped  her  face  presently,  and  then 
fanned  it  gently  with  her  pocket-handkerchief.  She 
had  pale  brown  eyes  of  the  colour  of  honey,  and  they 
were  the  home  of  light.  Their  peculiar  tone  chal- 
lenged the  sunbeams  and  echoed  a  warm  glint,  that 
she  was  soon  to  see,  where  moorland  pools  are  pene- 
trated by  the  direct  ray  and  flash  it  back  again.  Her 
eyebrows  were  wonderful  and  arched  true  as  the  bow 
upon  the  cloud.  They  were  dark  and  a  little  heavy, 
but,  since  her  face  showed  much  strength  of  character 
in  the  chin  and  mouth,  they  were  not  too  heavy,  and 
their  perfect  form  and  steady  pencilling  prevented  any 
suggestion  of  the  irregular  or  unguarded  in  her 
character.  She  had  a  well-shaped  mouth  and  a  round, 
beautiful  chin,  wherein  a  dimple  dwelt.  Her  face  was 
strong,  but  also  sweet.  She  looked  too  pale,  but  her 
skin  shone  clear  and  promised  to  grow  warmer  when 
brought  into  communion  with  the  sun  and  the  wind. 
Her  nose  was  short  and  strongly  modelled ;  her  upper 
lip  was  somewhat  long  and  detracted  from  her  facial 
charm  when  in  repose,  but  that  accident  vanished  if 
she  laughed.  Then  sheer  loveliness  belonged  to  her 
in  the  opinion  of  discerning  spirits.  It  was,  however, 
the  elusive  loveliness  that  fires  the  connoisseur.  Com- 
monplace minds  did  not  always  admire  her.  She 
stood  of  average  woman's  height  and  was  somewhat 
thin,  but  a  restless  mind  and  small  appetite  contributed 
to  the  last  state.  Her  friend  had  foretold  that  Devon 
would  alter  that  particular. 

And  now  Elisabeth  was  come  to  the  good  red  earth 


THE  BEACON  15 

and  gazed  on  it  with  some  wonder  and  delight.  Then 
Exeter  appeared  and  disappeared.  She  reached  Yeo- 
ford  and  guessed  that  her  journey  must  be  nearly 
ended. 

"  Excuse  me,  please,"  she  said,  and  rose  and  filled 
the  window  for  a  moment. 

Then  she  returned  to  her  seat  and  her  strong  little 
hands,  in  white  thread  gloves,  folded  upon  her  lap 
again. 

An  educated  man  sat  opposite.  He  had  entered 
the  train  at  Exeter  and  admired  her.  He  spoke  to 
her  now  that  he  might  hear  her  speak. 

"Were  you  expecting  anybody  at  Yeoford?"  he 
inquired  as  the  train  proceeded. 

"  No.  But  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  I  might  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  Dartmoor  hills.  I've  heard  a  lot  about 
them.  And  I'm  coming  down  to  a  place  called  South 
Zeal  that's  close  by  them,  and  I  thought  maybe  that 
I  could  get  a  sight  of  them  by  now." 

"  Look  out  again ! "  he  said  quickly.  "  Look 
straight  across  the  valley  before  the  train  gets  into  the 
cutting." 

She  leapt  up  and  made  her  eyes  small  against  the 
great  welter  of  light. 

Here  were  elms  upon  broad  meadows,  and  then 
woods  and  the  glint  of  kerning  corn,  that  challenged 
the  sunlight  and  rippled  to  the  wind  upon  a  gentle  hill. 
Beyond,  a  heat-haze  danced  and  the  country  rolled 
away  into  close  perspective  dimmed  by  distance  and 
drenched  in  the  splendour  from  the  sky;  while  at  the 
horizon  a  small  shadow,  like  a  blue  mole-hill,  rose — a 
mere  dwarfed  hillock  under  the  brightness  of  golden 
cumuli  that  towered  their  mighty  heads  beneath  the 
throne  of  the  sun. 

"  Where's  Dartmoor,  sir  ?  "  asked  Elisabeth. 

"  Yonder,"  he  said,  and  pointed.  "  That's  Cosdon 
Beacon." 

The    train    sank   between    green   hedges,    and    the 


16  THE  BEACON 

traveller  fell  back  with  acute  disappointment  on  her 
face. 

"  My  word !  The  very  place  where  I'm  going.  'Tis 
nothing  at  all !  and  I  was  told — " 

Her  fellow-traveller  laughed. 

"  You  don't  understand.  You  mustn't  look  in  the 
sky  for  our  little  hills,  unless  you  stand  under  them. 
But  sometimes  distance  doesn't  lend  enchantment; 
sometimes  familiarity  doesn't  breed  contempt.  Don't 
be  cast  down.  Cosdon's  a  good  big  lump  of  earth 
when  you  are  there.  Nothing  is  absolute,  you  know; 
nothing  is  real.  Everything  only  seems.  If  you 
were  in  a  balloon  above  the  Beacon,  it  would  look  as 
flat  as  a  pancake.  It's  all  make-believe  and  pretence. 
Nature's  full  of  tricks  like  that;  and  we  copy  her  and 
make  believe  too,  don't  we?  " 

He  chaffed  her  and  admired  her  eyebrows,  but  she 
looked  puzzled  and  drew  the  inner  corners  of  those 
beautiful  arches  a  little  closer  together. 

"  The  hill's  a  long  way  off,  I  suppose?  " 

"  A  few  miles.  You  climb  to  the  top  to-morrow. 
Then  you'll  understand  it;  and  you'll  measure  South 
Zeal  better  from  the  top  of  Cosdon  than  you  will 
when  you're  in  it.     At  least  I  did  when  I  was  there." 

Here  she  followed  him. 

"  I  understand  that,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  a  busy,  bustling,  gossipy  place,  if  you're  in 
the  midst,  no  doubt.  But  you're  too  near  to  see  it 
then.  From  Cosdon  you'll  mark  a  smudge  down  be- 
low, like  the  skeleton  of  a  troglodyte  flattened  out — 
backbone,  tail,  head,  all  complete.  The  field  hedges 
stretching  away  to  right  and  left  are  the  ribs,  and  the 
village  is  the  carcase.  And  the  truth  of  Zeal,  if  we 
could  only  get  at  it,  might  lie  nearer  the  troglodyte 
skeleton  than  what  we  think  about  it.  Perhaps  its 
only  a  dead  thing  really.  But  nobody  will  ever  know 
the  truth  of  Zeal,  any  more  than  they  will  of  one  per- 
son in  it." 


THE  BEACON  17 

She  smiled  doubtfully,  but  barely  glimpsed  his 
meaning. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  about  the  truth  if  you 
like,"  he  said,  rattling  nonsense  to  watch  the  play  of 
her  face.  "  My  belief  is  that  there's  no  such  thing. 
Truth's  just  as  much  a  wild-goose  chase  as  the  elixir 
of  life.  There  never  was  any  absolute  truth.  Ab- 
solute truths  couldn't  contradict  absolute  truths,  could 
they?  Yet  who  has  found  out  anything  so  true  that 
nobody  doubts  it?  There's  nothing  known — nothing 
so  certain  that  everybody  believes  it." 

She  showed  interest  and  reflected. 

"  There's  death,"  she  said. 

"  Good  heavens !  What  an  instance !  Why,  the 
soul  of  man  cries  out  louder  against  death  than  any 
other  fact  of  Nature.  Immorality — who  wouldn't 
cling  to  it  if  he  could?  Death  is  doubted  by  nearly 
everybody.  I'm  sure  you  don't  believe  in  it  a  bit. 
More  do  I." 

Cosdon  appeared  again  now.  It  had  grown  into 
something  respectable.  It  shone  with  the  misty  bloom 
of  the  grape,  and  flung  itself  up  mightily  above  lesser 
hills. 

At  Okehampton  station  a  brisk,  young-looking  man 
with  a  clean-shaved  face  appeared  before  Elisabeth. 

"  You'll  be  Miss  Densham  I  reckon,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  I  know  most  of  the  people  on  the  platform,  but 
you're  strange.     Be  you  for  South  Zeal  ?  " 

She  shook  hands  with  her  fellow-servant. 

"  That's  right,"  she  answered.  The  accent  of  the 
county,  and  the  great  deliberation  of  this  particular 
native  interested  her. 

11  Hope  you've  had  a  good  journey,  I'm  sure.  My 
name's  Ned  Startup.  I'm  first  driver  to  the  Oxen- 
ham  Arms,  and  I've  come  to  fetch  you.  Where's 
your  box  to?  I'll  put  it  in  the  wagonette,  and  you  can 
sit  up  alongside  me  if  you  mind  to." 

"  I  should  like  that  very  well." 


18  THE  BEACON 

"  We  go  through  Okehampton,  and  I've  got  a  few 
places  to  call  to  pick  up  things.  The  wedding  be 
coming  near  now.     'Twill  be  a  great  event,  of  course." 

Elisabeth's  little  yellow  tin  trunk  was  put  behind 
in  the  body  of  the  carriage  and  she  sat  beside  the 
driver.  An  old  grey  horse  then  started  on  his  return 
journey,  while  Ned  chatted  and  told  her  about  the 
country  and  the  places  of  importance.  They  climbed 
the  great  hill  from  Okehampton,  sank  to  Sticklepath, 
and  so  passed  presently  to  a  little  hamlet  that  was  to 
be  the  newcomer's  home. 

Before  they  had  gone  very  far  Ned  Startup  warmed 
to  Elisabeth,  enjoyed  her  company  and  appreciated 
her  ready  understanding  of  his  points  and  jests.  For 
there  was  something  in  her  voice,  responsive  eyes  and 
sympathy  that  made  men  desire  a  closer  intimacy  and 
feel  she  would  not  deny  it.  Beyond  a  very  elementary 
point,  however,  the  girl  had  never  been  tempted  to  go. 
When  youth  desired  to  become  personal,  or  middle- 
age  showed  a  tendency  to  grow  silly,  she  chilled  them 
alike,  and  had  the  art  to  leave  them  not  angry  with 
her,  but  with  themselves. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  thatched  roofs  of  Zeal  fall  in  grey  steps  or 
gold  from  west  to  east,  where  the  village  lies 
upon  a  hill.  First  comes  a  row  of  white-washed  cots, 
with  white-washed  walls  between  their  gardens;  then 
a  little  inn  appears  and  other  dwellings  under  tar- 
pitched  roofs.  Half-way  down  the  descent,  Elisabeth 
marked  a  small,  dark,  limestone  house,  solid,  stern  and 
new.  The  walls  about  it  shone  white  or  rosy,  and 
their  thatches  were  moss-grown  and  full  of  genial  col- 
our; but  this  dwelling  was  different.  It  looked  grim 
as  a  torpedo-boat  moored  in  a  fleet  of  mellow-sailed 
fishers. 

"  That's  Abraham  Mortimore's  house.  Him  as 
rents  the  limestone  quarry  and  has  a  finger  in  other 
pies  beside.  A  terrible  curious  man — rich  and  cranky. 
'Twill  take  all  your  time  to  please  him  when  he  comes 
for  his  evening  drop." 

Mr.  Startup  explained  other  objects  of  interest  as 
he  drove  slowly  down  through  the  village  to  where 
stood  the  Oxenham  Arms,  the  stateliest  and  most  an- 
cient abode  of  the  hamlet. 

In  the  midst  of  Zeal  rose  a  graceful  cross  above 
four  crooked  steps.  It  lifted  with  a  long  stalk  and 
short  arms,  and  the  road  divided  here  to  right  and 
left,  leaving  the  cross  and  an  open  space  and  a  little 
chapel  together  in  the  midst.  A  shining  clock 
beamed  from  the  chapel,  and  the  hands  moved  over 
golden  figures ;  while  above,  two  exposed  bells  hung 
together  in  a  tiny  turret  and  twittered  thinly  like  birds, 
to  call  the  people  at  times  of  prayer. 

The  village  was  quite  soaked  in  sunshine.  Zeal 
basked  happy  as  a  lizard  beneath  Cosdon's  uplifted 

19 


20  THE  BEACON 

heights.  It  lay  like  a  nest  in  the  hollow  of  a  desert 
place,  and  the  sun  burnt  into  it  and  lighted  the  cot- 
tage faces  and  blazed  in  the  little  flower-gardens  by 
the  way  and  cast  deep  purple  shadows  between  the  cots 
to  make  cool  places  for  the  children  to  play  in  and  the 
dogs  to  rest.  Sweet-peas  and  asters,  dahlias  and  sun- 
flowers, geraniums  and  fuchsias  brightened  each  little 
garth;  and  through  them  ran  red  brick  and  dark  blue 
limestone  paths  from  wooden  wickets  to  open  doors. 
Sometimes  a  half-door  or  hatch  crossed  the  portals 
and  kept  the  babies  in. 

Elisabeth  took  joy  of  this  vision.  She  told  Startup 
that  she  had  seen  something  like  it  on  the  stage. 

"  But  'tisn't  always  so,"  he  said.  "  'Tis  all  mucks 
and  mire  half  the  year.  However  I  be  glad  'tis 
favourable  for  your  coming." 

"And  that's  the  Beacon?" 

"  'Tis  so — a  very  queer  old  place  up  top.  Then 
across  t'other  side  you  see  Red  Wheal  Copper  Mine — 
them  chimneys  and  machines  and  puffs  of  steam  on 
that  high  broken  ground  yonder.  A  very  busy  place ; 
and  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  village  there's  a  stream 
and  a  tree  or  two  and  a  few  small  inns.  But  nothing 
to  our  inn  as  we'm  just  coming  to.  And  northerly 
lies  old  Mortimore's  famous  quarries,  and  South  Taw- 
ton  and  the  church.  Be  you  church  or  chapel, 
miss? 

The  question  startled  Elisabeth.  None  had  ever 
asked  her  that  before. 

"  Church,  I  suppose,"  she  said.     "  What  are  you? " 

"  Church,  for  certain.  We  all  go  somewhere — or 
say  we  do — ban't  like  you  people  in  London.  Not 
but  what  a  man  here  and  there  scoffs  at  it,  like  Rey- 
nold Dunning  for  instance  to  Clannaboro'  Farm.  But 
we'm  mostly  of  some  persuasion." 

He  drew  up  where  an  old  sixteenth-century  build- 
ing stood  with  deep  porch  and  oriel  windows.  A  tar- 
pitched  slate  roof,  that  undulated  like  running  waves, 


rp 


THE  BEACON  21 

crowned  the  ancient  place ;  a  great  archway  opened  to 
the  stables  at  one  end,  and  before  the  entrance  was  a 
granite  porch  of  fine  proportions,  where  winter 
weather  or  summer  sun  might  be  escaped.  As  she 
entered,  a  cool  freshness  touched  Elisabeth's  forehead 
and  welcomed  her.  A  draught  blew  straight  through 
the  dwelling.     She  heard  a  voice  cry  out : 

"  She's  come,  Tom,"  and  then  appeared  two  figures 
— a  man  and  an  old  woman. 

Tom  Underbill,  master  of  the  Oxenham  Arms,  ad- 
vanced, took  off  his  hat,  and  shook  Elisabeth's  hand; 
his  aunt,  who  approached  behind  him,  waited  to  dry 
her  hands  on  her  apron  before  doing  the  same.  The 
man  was  very  fair  and  ruddy,  with  a  face  like  a  boy's, 
and  a  great  frame  bulking  large  enough  to  fill  his  own 
spacious  portal ;  the  woman  had  equal  breadth,  but 
she  sloped  like  a  hill  from  her  head  outward.  From 
neck  to  breast,  from  breast  to  stomach  she  expanded. 
She  revealed  a  pendulous  chin  with  little  tags  of  hair 
upon  it.  She  had  a  manlike  voice  and  manlike  opin- 
ions, save  in  her  comprehensive  contempt  for  man. 

"  This  is  Miss  Cann,  my  aunt,  who's  helping  for 
the  minute  till  I'm  married,"  explained  Mr.  Under- 
bill. "  She'll  show  you  your  room.  There's  a  rotten 
board  in  the  floor  of  it  as  you'll  have  to  mind.  I  be 
going  to  have  it  mended  in  a  minute,  but  along  of  my 
coming  marriage  there's  a  few  things  have  got  to  wait. 
You  can  understand  that  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  can." 

"  Now  you  shall  look  in  the  bar,  if  you  please.  My 
aunt  will  make  tea,  and  no  doubt  you'll  be  glad  of  it. 
Here's  the  bar  parlour  this  side,  and  our  big  room  for 
public  meetings  and  dinners  and  audits  and  such  like 
is  up  over.     The  skittle  alley's  behind  and — " 

"  Shut  up,  Tom,  and  go  about  your  business,"  said 
his  aunt.  "  Come  with  me,  Miss — what's  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Elisabeth.     But  you'll  call  me  Lizzie,  I  hope." 


22  THE  BEACON 


it 


I  shall  do.  I  ban't  one  to  waste  breath;  haven't 
got  none  to  waste  for  that  matter.  Here's  the  bar. 
The  busy  time's  after  seven  o'clock.  'Tis  a  very  fine 
bar,  as  you  can  see.  How  long  it  will  bide  so  under 
my  nephew  I  can't  tell." 

The  newcomer  regarded  her  theatre  of  work  with  a 
professional  eye.  It  was  strangely  small  after  the 
London  bar,  but  it  was  bright  and  sweet,  fresh  and 
cool. 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Elisabeth. 

"  So  you  should.  'Twas  all  planned  and  thought 
out  by  a  very  clever  man.  My  late  brother,  in  fact. 
Then  he  was  carried  off  by  a  carbuncle  in  his  neck, 
just  when  he'd  got  all  shipshape  and  spent  an  ocean  of 
money.  And  then  my  nephew  gave  up  a  small  place, 
at  Throwleigh  village,  a  few  mile  from  here,  and  took 
up  this.  But  he's  one  of  them  '  to-morrow  '  sort  of 
men  and  a  great  putter  off.  He  would  have  put  off 
being  married  only  the  girl  weren't  that  sort.  But 
now  'tis  to  be.  In  fact  Friday  week's  the  day.  You 
like  the  bar,  Lizzie?" 

"  I  do  like  it.  I've  got  a  few  ideas.  Mr.  Under- 
bill won't  mind  if  I  arrange  things  my  way? ' 

"  Mind?  He  was  never  known  to  mind  in  his  life. 
Easiness  made  alive  be  that  man.  But  his  wife's  dif- 
ferent. I  fix  my  hope  on  her  and  you.  I  trust  you 
be  made  of  pretty  tough  stuff?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  am.  I've  had  a  hard  life  and  none 
the  worse  for  it." 

Miss  Cann  nodded. 

"  You  girls  behind  the  bar  see  what  they  are." 

When  Fanny  Cann  used  the  word  '  they  '  she  in- 
dicated the  male  sex,  and  when  she  said  '  us  '  she  al- 
ways implied  her  own. 

"  There's  all  sorts — good  and  bad — here  like  every- 
where else,  I  suppose,"  said  the  younger. 

"  All  sorts,  mostly  caddling,  worthless  creatures. 
Be  you  tokened  or  anything  like  that?  " 


THE  BEACON  23 

"'  Tokened '  ?  What's  tokened?"  asked  Elisa- 
beth. 

"  Engaged  to  be  married." 

"  No,  I'm  not." 

"Not  a   friend?" 

The  technical  meaning  of  '  friend '  was  familiar  to 
Miss  Densham. 

"  Not  in  that  sense,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  don't  be  in  no  hurry.  There's  a  lot  of  miners 
and  small  farmers  and  quarrymen  and  such  like  here. 
But  they'm  all  rubbish.  Now  I'll  fetch  you  up  to  your 
chamber,  and  then  us'll  have  some  tea.  'Tis  a  queer 
old  place  and  I'm  frightened  of  my  life  to  move  off 
the  ground  floor,  for  fear  of  bringing  down  the  stairs, 
or  one  of  the  ceilings.  There's  a  lot  wanting  to  be 
done  in  the  matter  of  rats  and  rotten  wood  that  my 
brother  meant  to  do ;  but  whether  Tom  will  ever  carry 
out  anything  till  a  floor  lets  him  through  and  breaks 
his  neck,  I  can't  say." 

Elisabeth  laughed. 

"  He's  a  very  fine  man." 

"  A  big  size  in  boots,  I  grant  you ;  but  a  terrible 
small  size  in  hats — like  most  of  'em  about  here.  They 
don't  run  to  brains  in  this  generation.  Here's  your 
room,  and  I  see  Ned  and  Nelly  haven't  fetched  up 
your  box  yet.     I'll  hurry  'em." 

Miss  Cann  lumbered  heavily  away  and  Elisabeth 
looked  about  her.  It  was  a  pleasant  little  chamber 
facing  upon  the  street.  White  blinds  covered  the  win- 
dow; the  floor  was  bare  and  still  damp  after  scrub- 
bing. A  rag  mat  of  many  colours  lay  beside  the  bed. 
At  one  end  extended  boards  perforated  with  worm 
holes,  and  a  piece  of  paper  was  pinned  to  the  wall 
above  with  these  words  in  a  large  sprawling  hand : 

"Keep  off  here!" 

Somebody  knocked  at  the  door.  Then  Ned  Startup 
and  a  maiden  entered  with  the  box  between  them. 

They  put  it  where  Elisabeth  directed,  and  Startup 


24  THE  BEACON 

introduced  the  girl.  She  wore  a  long  blue  apron  over 
a  print  frock.  Her  face  was  bright  and  high  coloured, 
her  eyes  and  hair  were  black.  The  latter  was  drawn 
back  and  tied  in  a  bunch  on  her  neck.  She  was  tall 
and  well  favoured. 

"  This  be  Miss  Densham,  Nelly,  and  this  be  Nelly 
Jope,  our  shoemaker's  daughter.  She  works  here 
and  we  be  keeping  company." 

The  girls  shook  hands. 

"  Hope  you'll  like  it,  I'm  sure,"  said  Nelly.  "  'Tis  a 
funny  little  old  place  and  will  seem  terrible  wisht  after 
London  I  should  think." 

"  I  shall  like  it  for  certain.  It's  so  beautiful  all 
round  about." 

Nelly  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  Me  and  Ned  would  go  to  London  to-morrow  if 
we  could,"  she  declared. 

Half  an  hour  later  Lizzie  drank  tea  with  Tom  Un- 
derbill and  his  aunt.  They  told  her  of  the  things  that 
would  concern  her  work,  and  she  was  surprised  to 
learn  how  light  it  promised  to  be. 

"I  shall  feel  lost  at  first,"  she  declared.  "Of  a 
morning  you'll  have  to  find  a  bit  for  me  to  do." 

A  bell  sounded  and  Tom  rose. 

"  The  bar,"  he  said. 

"Let  me  go,  then." 

They  went  together  to  find  a  man  at  the  counter. 

"  Hullo,  Dunning!     Don't  often  see  you  here." 

"  Good-evening,  Tom.  Not  often.  'Tis  a  thought 
out  of  my  beat  most  times.  A  pint  of  Burton,  miss, 
please." 

Lizzie  drew  the  beer. 

"This  be  our  new  barmaid — Miss  Densham,"  ex- 
plained the  publican.  "  She've  come  along,  so  as  she 
shall  settle  down  afore  I  get  married  and  go  off  for 
the  honeymoon.  She's  a  Londoner  and  doubts  we 
don't  know  what  work  is  here." 


THE  BEACON  25 

Reynold   Dunning  nodded. 

"  Some  of  us  do;  some  of  us  don't,"  he  answered. 

He  was  a  man  near  forty  years  old,  clean  shaved 
and  featured  like  a  Northern  Indian,  with  rather  high 
cheek-bones,  bright  hard  eyes  and  straight  dark  hair. 
His  face  was  handsome,  and  his  lips  finely  moulded 
and  very  firm.  He  was  tall  and  slightly  built.  Grey 
already  showed  in  his  hair,  but  not  sufficiently  to  dis- 
colour it.  Dunning  was  a  bachelor,  and  women  liked 
him  for  his  good  looks  and  his  masterful  attitude  to- 
ward the  sex.  He  knew  something  about  them,  not 
because  he  sought  them  or  cared  for  them,  but  be- 
cause his  was  a  nature  before  which  they  were  prone 
to  reveal  themselves  a  little.  He  breathed  masculin- 
ity and  unconsciously  they  felt  it  and  responded. 

Many  held  him  to  be  cruel.  He  was  a  farmer  and 
lived  in  the  neighbouring  hamlet  of  Throwleigh,  at 
the  eastern  foothills  of  the  Beacon. 

The  newcomer  interested  him  and  he  looked  boldly 
at  her. 

"  A  change  from  London,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  the  country  and  I  want  hills,"  she  an- 
swered.    "  I  was  told  there  were  fine  hills." 

"  Plenty  of  hills." 

He  finished  his  beer,  paid  for  it,  and  went  out  with- 
out another  word.  A  moment  later  he  had  mounted 
a  bay  horse  and  ridden  away. 

Lizzie  laughed. 

"  Funny  manners,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  he's  an  odd  man.  Was  disappointed  in  love 
they  say,  though  none  can  prove  it,  for  nobody  ever 
knowed  the  woman,  if  woman  there  was.  His  ways 
be  rather  blunt  like  that.  There  was  a  girl  lived  at 
Throwleigh  who  cared  a  lot  about  him — a  rich  girl 
too,  and  he  knowed  it.  And  to  church,  one  Sunday 
evening,  she  dropped  her  book  in  the  aisle  right  under 
his  nose  as  he  was  carrying  round  the  alms-dish,  and 
instead  of  picking  it  up  for  her,  he  kicked  it  pretty 


26  THE  BEACON 

near  to  the  altar  steps  and  didn't  turn  a  hair.  But  the 
poor  girl  very  near  fainted — so  'twas  said.  Though 
I  believe  she  thought  more  of  the  prayer-book  after 
that  than  all  the  rest  of  her  possessions.  That  was 
in  his  church-going  days  when  his  mother  was  alive. 
But  he  gived  up  all  that  when  she  died.  He  lives 
alone  with  his  head  man  and  his  head  man's  wife  to 
Clannaboro'  Farm,  nigh  Throwleigh.  He's  a  terrible 
hard  worker  and  fears  nought.  Makes  lot  of  money, 
but  'tisn't  known  that  he  spends  it.  He've  got  ene- 
mies. Abraham  Mortimore  of  this  place  hates  him 
worse  than  the  Dowl.  Both  hungry  as  hawks  for 
money,  and  the  sparks  fly  when  they  meet,  I  assure 
you.  But  '  Iron '  Mortimore,  as  we  call  him,  be  gen- 
erally held  to  get  out  of  it  best." 

"  He's  very  good-looking,  however." 

Tom  laughed. 

"  There  you  are !  Just  like  t'others.  The  women 
all  bow  down  afore  Reynold  Dunning,  and  the  men 
all  wonder  what  the  mischief  they  see  in  such  a  glum, 
short-speeched   man." 

"  You'll  not  catch  me  bowing  down,  Mr.  Underhill. 
I'm  like  your  aunt,  Miss  Cann — shall  be  an  old  maid 
for  certain." 

"  Don't  you  say  that.  Us'll  find  a  good  husband 
for  'e  come  presently  if  you  bide  here." 

He  helped  her  with  alterations  and  explained  the 
contents  of  certain  bottles. 

"  There's  a  good  few  old  blades  have  their  own 
taps  of  a  night.  Jack  Jope,  the  shoemaker — that's 
his  drink — Hollands  he  takes,  and  Abraham  Morti- 
more has  gin.  His  bottle's  paid  for  on  the  nail  so 
soon  as  it's  opened,  and  he  knows  to  an  eyelash  where 
the  liquor  ought  to  stand  in  it.  Then  his  man  at  the 
quarry,  Frank  Madders — '  Lucky '  he's  called. 
Lucky's  bottle  be  there.  We're  all  very  friendly  most 
times  and  give  and  take.  Some  of  the  miners  from 
Red  Wheal  be  a  thought  rough,  but  I  never  allow  any 


THE  BEACON  27 

coarse  speech  in  the  bar  more  than  I  can  help,  because 
I  doant  like  it." 

"  I  shall  very  soon  get  the  run  of  everything,  I 
hope." 

"  No  doubt.  You  ask  my  Aunt  Fanny  if  you  stand 
in  need  of  ought.  I'm  going  out  now  to  see  Minnie 
— that's  the  young  woman  I'm  going  to  marry  next 
week." 

Evening  brought  the  regular  customers,  and  though 
Mr.  Underhill  proposed  postponement  until  after  a 
night's  rest,  Lizzie  chose  to  begin  her  work  at  once. 
She  saw  certain  local  characters  of  importance, 
snubbed  an  unpleasant  stranger,  and  created  a  favour- 
able impression. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BEYOND  the  blacksmith's  shop  and  the  inn  of  the 
'  Seven  Stars  '  there  stands  at  South  Tawton  a 
great  elm.  Beside  its  foot  are  bedded  a  drinking- 
fountain  and  a  pillar-box;  behind  it  rise  steps  to  the 
lich-gate  of  St.  Andrew's,  a  fine  old  perpendicular 
fane  with  tower  embattled  and  pinnacled,  and  a  heavy, 
south-facing  porch.  A  motto  from  Juvenal  decorates 
the  wall ;  about  the  open  place  before  the  door  lie 
gravestones  in  the  gravel  and  stands  an  ancient  font 
of  granite;  the  large  yard  is  remarkable  for  the  num- 
ber of  unrecorded  dead  whose  mounds  are  scattered 
within  it. 

The  bells  were  ringing  for  Tom  Underhill  and  Min- 
nie Burgoyne,  and  a  thin  stream  of  the  folk  threaded 
into  South  Tawton  from  the  neighbour  hamlet  of 
Zeal.  The  life  of  Zeal  was  at  doors  and  windows, 
and  those  who  could  not  attend,  watched  two  car- 
riages, with  white  horses  and  satin  streamers  on  the 
whips,  as  they  departed  to  church. 

The  guests  went  on  foot,  though  a  few,  from  more 
distant  homesteads,  drove.  Among  these  was  Rey- 
nold Dunning,  who  came  from  Clannaboro'  with  Noah 
Vallance,  his  head  man,  and  Mercy  Vallance,  his 
housekeeper. 

Many  girls  and  young  men  went  to  the  wedding. 
They  marched  chattering  along  in  Sunday  best 
through  deep,  hot  lanes  to  the  throb  of  the  little  bells 
of  South  Tawton. 

The  girls  wore  blouses  of  bright  colours  and  flam- 
ing hats.  Elisabeth  Densham  and  Nelly  Jope  came 
together,   and   with  them   walked   a   little  black-eyed 

girl  with  dark  hair — Nelly's  younger  sister,   Emma. 

28 


THE  BEACON  29 

She  was  quick  and  alert  as  a  mouse,  humorous  and 
clever  for  her  age.  She  had  the  art  to  make  men 
laugh,  though  she  was  only  sixteen. 

A  crowd  of  slatternly  women,  with  children  tum- 
bling over  them,  collected  at  the  church  door.  Each 
remembered  a  similar  event  when  they  had  played 
heroine  a  few  years  before.  Some  were  passive  as 
sheep  and  stared  stupidly  before  them;  others  laughed 
and  chaffed  and  tip-toed  to  see  the  bride  when  she  ar- 
rived. 

In  church  presently  assembled  silent  people  clad  in 
their  best.  These  sought  to  be  near  the  ceremony, 
but  other  men  and  women,  in  workaday  clothes,  kept 
at  the  back.  A  murmur  of  low  talk  persisted  in  the 
porch,  where  the  four  bridesmaids  were  waiting. 
They  wore  white  dresses  and  blue  sashes.  Each  car- 
ried a  small  bunch  of  sweet-peas  and  maidenhair  fern 
tied  with  a  pale  pink  ribbon.  A  row  of  young  men 
just  within  the  church  kept  attracting  their  attention 
and  making  them  laugh. 

Lizzie  appeared  with  Nelly  Jope  and  walked  up 
the  aisle.  The  young  men  openly  admired  her.  She 
wore  a  white  hat  and  a  white  lace  garment  over  the 
body  of  an  apple-green  dress.  On  her  breast  was  a 
white  rose,  and  she  had  tied  up  her  hair  with  a  big 
black  velvet  bow.  A  long  pin  with  a  purple  glass 
head  fastened  her  hat  on. 

There  was  a  rattle  and  noise  at  the  entrance,  and 
Tom  Underhill  arrived  with  his  best  man,  one  Charles 
Trevail.  Both  wore  black  coats  and  grey  trousers, 
and  both  were  men  above  the  average  height ;  but  the 
bridegroom's  girth  dwarfed  his  friend,  who  was  of 
lighter  mould. 

As  they  went  along  Trevail  searched  the  pews  with 
his  eyes  and  saw  Lizzie  in  her  place.  He  approached 
her  and  handed  her  a  little  bunch  of  stephanotis  and 
maidenhair.  She  smiled,  pointed  to  the  rose  that  she 
wore,  and  gave  the  exotic  to  Nelly.     The  incident  oc- 


30  THE  BEACON 

cupied  but  a  moment  and  the  heroine  thereof  forgot 
it  immediately. 

The  homage  of  flowers  was  an  everyday  experience 
with  her,  but  her  act  ruined  the  approaching  festivity 
for  Tom  Underbill's  best  man. 

Mr.  Trevail  was  fair,  with  a  big  amber  moustache, 
high  forehead  and  kindly  eyes.  He  had  a  strong  hand 
and  a  deep  intonation  that  suggested  power.  He  was 
handsome,  genial,  fortunate  in  the  possession  of  good 
health  and  a  future  cloudless.  Charles  Trevail  was, 
in  fact,  the  nephew  of  the  man  known  as  '  Iron ' 
Mortimore,  and  other  near  relative  the  miser  had  none. 

Now  came  Jack  Jope,  the  shoemaker  of  the  full 
quiver,  and  beckoned  to  his  girl  Emma,  who  sat  with 
Nelly  and  Elisabeth.  She  left  them  and  retired  to  a 
less  conspicuous  place,  where  her  widowed  father  had 
seated  four  children  in  a  row  behind  the  font.  Frank 
Madders,  from  the  limestone  quarry,  arrived  beam- 
ing, and  after  him  followed  a  crowd  of  the  Knapman 
and  Burgoyne  people — relations  of  the  bride. 

Miss  Fanny  Cann,  with  Tom's  mother,  a  gigantic 
woman  in  red  velvet,  appeared  next,  and  soon  after- 
wards the  bride  approached  on  her  father's  arm.  She 
came  up  the  aisle  with  her  bridesmaids  behind  her, 
and  at  the  rear  was  a  slithering  and  whispering  where 
certain  female  spectators,  with  dirty  aprons  and  down- 
trodden shoes,  crept  in  and  brought  their  children  and 
babies  to  empty  places  at  the  rear  of  the  church. 

Minnie  Burgoyne  wore  white,  and  tall  though  she 
was  reached  only  to  her  parent's  shoulder.  He  stood 
very  upright  for  all  his  sixty  years,  and  as  he  went  up 
the  aisle  his  bald  head  caught  reflections  from  stained 
glass  and  shone  first  purple  as  a  swede,  then  red  as  a 
beet.  The  girl  was  large-featured,  blue-eyed  and 
good-looking.  Her  face  was  strong,  her  self-posses- 
sion was  complete.  She  glanced  about  her,  nodded 
to  friends  and  picked  up  her  father's  button-hole  when 
it  fell  suddenly  from  his  coat. 


THE  BEACON  31 

A  clergyman  with  a  red  country  face  and  iron-grey 
whispers  fluttered  from  the  vestry  door;  the  bells 
ceased,  the  bridegroom  rose  and  ranged  his  bulk  beside 
the  bride.  For  all  his  size  Tom  was  the  diffident 
party,  and  he  spoke  in  a  voice  stiller  and  smaller  than 
that  of  conscience.  But  Minnie  answered  like  a  bell. 
The  future  adjustment  of  power  between  them  might 
have  been  predicted  from  these  responses. 

When  all  was  done  Elisabeth  and  Nelly  walked 
back  to  the  Oxenham  Arms  together,  and  on  the  way 
the  carriage  with  the  bride  and  bridegroom  passed 
them.  Ned  Startup  drove  it,  and  her  new  friend 
praised  him  to  his  sweetheart. 

"  A  fine  chap  and  kindness  itself.  You  are  very 
fortunate  to  get  such  a  man." 

"  So  I  was  without  a  doubt.  Thinks  a  lot  of  me,  I 
believe — more  than  I  do  of  myself  anyway.  I  axed 
him  whatever  he  saw  in  me  and  he  couldn't  tell.  More 
can  honest  lovers  ever  really  tell,  when  it  comes  to 
pulling  the  other  party  to  pieces." 

"  Love  is  like  the  lightning,  Mr.  Dunning  says — 
said  it  in  that  grim  way  of  his.  You  can't  tell  where 
it  comes  from." 

"  Or  where  it  goes  to  either." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  dies  once  it's  started." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  does,"  declared  Nelly.  "  It  burns  out. 
Can't  go  on  without  oil,  any  more  than  a  lamp.  My 
poor  mother  hated  father  proper  before  she  died." 

"  And  yet  Mr.  Jope  was  very  fond  of  her.  He  cries 
still — in  the  bar — when  he  talks  about  her." 

"  So  fond  that  he  shortened  her  days,"  answered 
the  shoemaker's  daughter.  "  So  fond  that  he  had 
fourteen  children  by  her,  and  wrecked  her,  and  over- 
worked her  till  there  was  hardly  enough  left  of  her  to 
fill  a  proper-sized  coffin.  I  never  like  my  father  when 
I  think  of  that.  And  to  hear  him  fling  it  all  on  God 
with  a  light  heart !  " 


32  THE  BEACON 

Lizzie  laughed. 

"  You  won't  have  fourteen,  I  reckon  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Fourteen !  No — nor  yet  five.  Me  and  Ned  be 
of  a  mind  there.  We've  got  our  self-respect  nowa- 
days. We'm  better  educated  than  our  mothers.  The 
quality  think  all  we'm  fit  for  be  to  breed  soldiers  and 
sailors  and  servants  to  wait  on  them  and  fight  their 
battles;  but  we  begin  to  know  a  bit  wiser  than  that 
now.  As  one  of  fourteen  I've  seen  too  much  nasty 
pity  and  patronage  to  want  to  suffer  it  myself." 

Lizzie  nodded. 

"  I'm  like  that  too,"  she  said.  "  So's  Mr.  Dun- 
ning. But  Mr.  Trevail's  different.  He'll  be  a  rich 
man  some  day,  I  suppose." 

"  He's  all  right.  I  like  him  better  than  anybody 
in  these  parts  after  Ned.  A  very  kind,  easy  chap.  I 
wish  '  Iron '  Mortimore  would  die  and  leave  Mr.  Tre- 
vail  his  money." 

"  He  is  easy — too  easy,"  declared  the  other.  "  He 
wants  a  bit  of  Mr.  Dunning's  hardness.  If  you  could 
roll  those  two  men  into  one  you'd  get  a  very  fine 
chap." 

"  Dunning's  gone  on  you,  I  believe.  Ned  was  say- 
ing but  yesterday  that  we'd  seen  him  more  this  last 
week  than  for  a  year  before." 

Lizzie  shook  her  head. 

"  Tis  Mr.  Underhill  he  comes  to  see.  But  Mr. 
Dunning  is  interesting,  I  will  allow.  Something  new 
about  him.  Never  says  the  expected  thing.  Terribly 
scornful  of  workaday  men  and  women,  and  scornful 
of  himself  too,  seemingly." 

"  He  don't  talk  very  nicely  about  marriage — 
haven't  got  no  patience  with  all  the  nonsense  about 
love  and  devotion  and  all  that.  But,  after  all, 
there's  something  in  love.  We  don't  marry  a  man 
only  to  feed  him.  Granted  we  cook  their  food  and 
are  their  food ;  but  we  get  something  back  too,  in  ex- 
change   for    ourselves    and    our    life-long    work    and 


THE   BEACON  33 

thought  of  'em.  But  I'd  sooner  marry  Trevail  than 
Reynold  Dunning.     He'd  wear  better." 

Lizzie  did  not  note  the  last  remark.  She  was  ar- 
rested by  the  earlier  speech. 

"  What  you  say  about  what  we  do  for  them  and  they 
do  for  us  is  very  interesting,"  she  declared.  "  Some 
girls  are  built  to  seek  a  strong  man,  and  let  him  shield 
'em  and  be  the  oak  to  their  ivy ;  and  some  want  to 
give  and  take;  and  some  would  rather  before  all  else 
be  useful  and  lift  the  man  a  bit." 

"  Men  don't  want  girls  to  lift  'em,"  declared  Nelly. 
"  They'd  think  'twas  a  great  bore  if  a  woman  began 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Yet  I'm  the  kind  that  would  want  to  do  it.  I  be- 
lieve I'd  sooner  have  an  easy,  weak  chap  and  feel  my- 
self working  on  him  and  stringing  him  up — I'd  sooner 
have  such  a  man  than  a  strong,  close  man  that  I 
couldn't  touch.  I  should  always  feel  with  such  a  man 
that  he  was  hidden  from  me,  and  that  I  was  no  more 
really  inside  his  life  than  the  flower  in  his  button-hole. 
But  with  the  other  sort  I  should  know  I  was  being 
useful  and  helping  him  to  something  better  than  he 
could  have  been  without  me." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  Cosdon  as  she  spoke.  The 
hill  towered  under  noon-tide  light,  but  the  light  was 
broken  by  clouds.  Rain  swept  over  the  Beacon,  and 
its  curtains  of  grey,  tagged  with  glittering  silver,  ex- 
tended for  a  few  moments  into  the  valley.  The  Bea- 
con sank  behind  this  brief  storm;  light  and  colour 
died  out  of  it,  and  until  its  higher  and  lower  ridges 
rolled  huge  and  dim  and  removed,  like  a  cloud  upon 
a  cloud.  But  the  rain  quickly  passed,  the  vapours 
thinned  and  feathered  away,  and  the  sun  shone  again. 

The  wedding  feast  was  served  in  the  public  room 
of  the  Oxenham  Arms — a  long,  low  chamber  on  the 
second  floor.  The  new  barmaid  did  not  attend  it,  but 
having  quickly  changed  her  best  gown,  put  on  black 


34  THE  BEACON 

and  went  to  her  work.  Little  was  doing,  however, 
and  when  presently,  after  proposing  the  bridesmaids, 
Mr.  Trevail  slipped  from  his  seat  and  came  down  to 
the  bar  upon  a  pretext,  he  found  her  alone  there. 

Trevail  plunged  straight  to  the  matter  that  had  trou- 
bled him  so  much. 

"  Look  here,  why  didn't  you  take  the  flower?  '! 

"  I'd  got  one." 

"  I  had  that  rare,  sweet  flower  specially  for  you 
from  the  gardener  at  Oxenham  House." 

"  He's  a  very  nice  chap.  He  comes  in  here  some- 
times. He's  offered  me  to  go  over  the  houses  any 
day  I  like." 

"  Well,  I  think  you  might  have  taken  it  after  all 
my  trouble,  Miss  Densham." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sudden  smile  few  could 
withstand. 

"  I  did  take  it." 

"  And  gave  it  to  Nelly  Jope." 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  A  flower's  only  a  flower. 
They'll  miss  you,  won't  they  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  back.  Made  an  excuse  about 
my  uncle." 

"  He's  the  most  peculiar  man  in  South  Zeal,  I  should 
think — Mr.  Mortimore,  I  mean — " 

"  He  s  not  a  bad  sort  really." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  he  was  your  sort,  how- 


ever." 


"  More  he  is,"  declared  Charles  Trevail.  "  I'm 
easy-going  and  would  sooner  walk  than  run  any  day. 
But  as  the  more  he  saves,  the  more  I  shall  have  to 
spend — " 

She  interrupted  him  impatiently. 

"  I  call  that  a  feeble  thing  to  say.  If  you  think 
meanness  and  hardness  and  stinting  are  wrong,  why 
don't  you  tell  him  so  ?  " 

The  man  was  startled. 

"Good  gracious !     Quarrel  with  Uncle   Abraham! 


THE  BEACON  35 

Not    likely.     I'm    the    only    friend    he's    got    in    the 
world." 

"  He's  a  terrible  old  man,  I  think.  Money-grub- 
bing does  make  them  that  do  it  terrible.  I've  known 
the  like." 

"  Money's  power,  however." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  with  me.  I'd  set  other  things  high 
above  it." 

He  was  a  good  deal  interested  at  this. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  be  rich  then  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  the  last  thing  I've  ever  hankered  to  be." 

His  face  fell  and  he  felt  that  this  was  bad  news. 
The  girl  had  done  mighty  things  in  the  heart  of 
Charles  Trevail.  He  was  in  love  with  her  and  en- 
during tremendous  novel  and  secret  experiences  for 
her  sake.  His  monotonous  life  had  been  broken  in 
upon  by  the  gigantic  thing.  He  was  miserable  and 
distracted.  He  had  trusted  to  his  prospects  as  the 
major  hope  with  her ;  and  he  could  ill  bear  to  believe 
now,  on  her  bare  word,  that  she  did  not  care  much  for 
money. 

"  Not  as  a  master — not  like  my  uncle — but  as  a 
servant.  Money's  a  good  servant,  Miss  Densham," 
he  argued. 

"  You  think  a  lot  about  it  no  doubt,"  she  said, 
"  but  'twill  never  interest  me  to  talk  about  it." 

"  Then  I  never  will  again.  You  don't  judge  me 
mean  and  close,  I  hope." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  you,  except  you're 
a  farmer." 

"  I'll  tell  you  more  come  our  walk.  You  haven't 
forgot  your  promise  for  Sunday  ?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't.  I'm  longing  to  see  the  Beacon.  I 
look  at  it  and  think  what  'tis  like  up  there  every  day." 

"  You'll  be  cruel  disappointed.  'Tis  only  a  lonely 
old  rogue's  roost  of  a  place.  A  good  view  round 
about  certainly,  but  the  Beacon  itself  is  nought. 
You'll  be  tired  to  death  afore  you  get  to  the  top." 


36  THE  BEACON 

He  had  suggested  the  walk  some  days  before,  and 
she  had  agreed  to  take  it  with  him.  He  pleased  her 
by  his  attention  and  she  admired  him.  Especially 
she  appreciated  his  deference  to  her  opinions  and  his 
interest  in  her  London  life. 

Presently  a  noise  overhead  told  that  the  feast  was 
done,  and  a  few  moments  later  Tom  Underbill's  bride 
descended  into  the  bar.  But  she  found  Lizzie  alone, 
for  at  the  sound  of  the  rising  company  above  them 
Charles  had  departed. 

The  newly-made  wife  came  forward. 

"  You  slip  upstairs  and  have  a  bit  of  chicken  and  a 
glass  of  wine,"  she  said.  "  I'll  mind  the  bar.  I  want 
for  Tom  to  see  me  behind  it  when  he  comes  down. 
I  told  him  I'd  be  there  the  very  day  we  was  mar- 
ried!" 

Minnie  took  her  place  calmly  and,  as  a  customer 
came  in  at  the  same  moment,  she  was  able  to  draw  a 
glass  of  beer  and  charge  three  halfpence  for  it. 

Some  of  the  wedding  party  entered  the  bar  and  sa- 
luted her  uproariously. 

"  There,"  she  said,  showing  them  a  penny  and  a 
halfpenny.  "  That's  my  luck,  that  is.  I  shall  keep 
them  coins  for  evermore,  and  Tom  will  have  to  get 
'em  made  up  in  a  brooch  for  me  to  wear." 

Two  hours  later  the  wedded  couple  drove  away  to 
Okehampton  and  the  guests  departed. 


CHAPTER  V 

/^■HARLES  TREVAIL  was  an  orphan  and  had 
^  neither  brothers  nor  sisters.  An  accident  de- 
prived him  of  his  mother  before  he  was  old  enough  to 
miss  her,  and  his  father  died  when  the  child  had 
reached  five  years.  Then,  for  his  sister's  sake,  the 
man  Abraham  Mortimore  adopted  his  nephew,  edu- 
cated him,  and,  when  he  was  old  enough,  made  over  to 
him  the  tenancy  of  North  Combe  Farm,  near  the  great 
quarry  below  South  Tawton. 

A  willing  submission  to  destiny  was  natural  to  this 
mild-mannered  young  man.  And  indeed  his  lines  so 
far  had  run  easily.  '  Iron  '  Mortimore  exacted  rent 
and  exercised  a  complete  control  at  North  Combe, 
but  the  farm  was  prosperous  and  Charles  knew  no 
discomfort  at  his  subordinate  position.  He  was  in- 
deed absolutely  contented  with  life  as  he  found  it,  and 
had  not  felt  any  desire  to  modify  the  even  tenor  of 
the  years.  He  had  never  thought  for  himself  or  ex- 
perienced the  least  ambition  to  do  so  until  now.  But 
with  the  advent  of  Elisabeth  Densham  all  was  changed 
and  he  began  to  taste  the  many-flavoured  dish  of 
love. 

He  came  from  her  presence  elated  or  cast  down  by 
the  trend  of  their  converse ;  and  sometimes  she  seemed 
a  little  nearer  and  sometimes  far  off  again.  Her  ef- 
fect upon  his  life  was  extraordinary,  and  on  many 
a  sleepless  night  he  had  leisure  to  consider  it  and  mark 
and  some  shadowy  experiments  in  romance  occurred 
the  symptoms.  Philanderings  he  could  remember, 
to  him  also ;  but  the  present  signs  and  miseries  had 
never  appeared  before,  and  by  these  he  doubted  not 
that  here,  beyond  all  question,  was  the  real  thing  at 

37 


88  THE  BEACON 

last.  For  despite  his  fret  of  mind  and  ceaseless  care 
he  found  himself  better  in  health,  more  vigorous, 
more  interested  in  life  than  he  had  ever  been  until 
this  time.  Though  eaten  up  with  anxiety,  he  was 
cheerfuller  and  braver  than  he  remembered  to  have 
been.  He  laughed  and  joked  more  with  other  men; 
he  went  out  of  his  way  to  do  acquaintances  a  service, 
and  found  himself  entering  into  the  affairs  of  his 
neighbours,  though  in  reality  they  interested  him 
not  at  all.  He  made  promises  to  advance  this  man's 
welfare  or  do  that  man  a  good  turn.  At  the  back 
of  his  mind  was  a  light  always  burning  and  beckoning. 
And  yet  he  could  not  summon  the  magic  face  at  will. 
Lesser  features  and  other  countenances  of  women 
were  mirrored  without  an  effort — this  face,  like  the 
owner  of  it,  was  elusive  and  subtle  and  not  to  be 
pictured  by  his  hungry  mind.  The  very  arch  of  her 
wonderful  eyebrows  escaped  him  when  he  was  not 
in  her  presence.  But  to  be  in  her  presence  was  the 
master  desire;  and  when  he  could  not  be,  he  thought 
of  those  who  were.  A  sensation  of  discomfort  and 
doubt  with  respect  to  other  men  got  hold  of  him. 
Once,  in  the  bar,  he  saw  a  man  lift  his  hand  and 
thrust  a  hairpin  into  place  in  Lizzie's  mound  of  hair; 
and  he  grew  hot  and  sulked  and  hated  the  man  for 
daring  to  take  such  a  liberty,  and  even  the  woman  a 
little  for  allowing  it.  He,  a  stranger  to  jealousy  or 
envy  until  now,  became  both  jealous  and  envious. 
He  was  very  impatient  and  inexperienced. 

His  love-making  appeared  crude  in  the  eyes  of  a 
girl  familiar  with  the  operation  as  exhibited  before 
her  by  many  men,  but  she  liked  Trevail  the  better  for 
that.  His  simplicity  and  earnestness  were  equally 
apparent,  and  she  smiled  in  secret  at  his  transparent 
little  shifts  and  wiles. 

But  she  grew  more  and  more  interested  in  him  as 
she  learned  more  of  him.  Because  here  was  a  man 
made  to  be  helped  not  hindered  by  a  woman;  here 


THE  BEACON  39 

was  a  man  who  would  put  the  woman  he  loved  on  his 
throne,  not  offer  her  a  footstool  alongside  of  it.  He 
was  the  type  that  she  had  always  thought  of  as  most 
likely  to  attract  her;  but  whether  he  would  prove 
more  than  an  example  of  the  type,  or  presently  come 
to  be  to  her  the  chosen,  that  remained  to  be  seen. 
She  was  in  no  hurry  and,  not  knowing  love,  felt  no 
particular  pity  for  Mr.  Trevail. 

Sometimes  she  helped  him  a  little  and  sometimes 
she  did  not.  Sometimes  his  speeches  and  gifts 
missed  fire,  and  he  was  wretched  until  another  oppor- 
tunity offered ;  sometimes  he  pleased  her,  and  the 
meeting  went  neatly  and  brilliantly.  Then  he 
rejoiced  and  hoped  again,  and  went  home,  treading 
on  air,  to  hunger  for  the  next  opportunity  and  busy 
his  wits  in  making  it.  At  forging  opportunities  he 
proved  so  cunning  and  full  of  resource  that  he  aston- 
ished himself.     Lizzie  was  never  out  of  his  thoughts. 

Within  a  fortnight  of  her  arrival  there  came  the 
great  walk  to  Cosdon  Beacon.  This  proved  a 
revelation  every  way,  and  the  woman  learned  far 
more  from  it  than  she  expected  to  learn ;  but  the  man 
sank  for  the  time  being  into  a  lesser  thing  than  the 
hill  he  showed  her.  The  Beacon  obliterated  Mr. 
Trevail.  Indeed,  upon  its  bosom,  in  his  Sunday 
clothes,  he  struck  a  wrong  note,  and  his  sentiments 
also  seemed  ludicrous  to  her  on  this  occasion ;  though 
fortunately  for  himself,  Charles  did  not  discover  the 
fact. 

They  passed  through  the  valley  behind  the  inn; 
then  they  crossed  the  main  road  and  began  their 
climb.  The  Sunday  afternoon  shone  fair  and,  since 
it  was  the  season  of  harvest,  out  of  the  immense 
tesselation  spread  beneath  them  through  the  un- 
dulating leagues  of  Devon,  there  gleamed  intermit- 
tently the  glory  of  corn.  It  lay  in  little  squares  and 
wedges  upon  the  face  of  the  earth ;  and  where  dis- 
tance reigned,  and  forest  and  farm  lands  blended  and 


40  THE  BEACON 

melted  together  in  a  blue  haze,  the  harvest  still  flashed, 
like  far-off  signals,  or  burnt  in  dazzling  patches  of 
gold  when  a  sunbeam  touched  it  and  picked  it  out  of 
the  welter. 

Tellus,  fertile  in  flocks  and  fruits,  had  woven 
coronets  of  corn  for  the  brow  of  Ceres. 

A  chance  spectator  might  have  been  struck  by  the 
wealth  of  woodlands  displayed  in  this  great  scene. 
The  hedgerows  alone,  where  they  merged  in  vanish- 
ing perspective,  seemed  to  transform  the  world  into 
one  forest,  and  seen  nearer,  many  deep  woods  and 
spinneys  and  copses,  that  marked  the  ways  of  water, 
abounded  and  hemmed  in  the  champaign  on  every 
side.  Cosdon's  own  breast  was  clad  in  fir  and  spruce 
at  one  point,  where  a  forest  crept  a  little  way  upward ; 
and  above  it  there  still  persisted  evidences  of  man's 
fight  with  the  Beacon.  His  fields  stretched  to  right 
and  left  of  the  stony  road  and  fought  aloft;  his  walls 
and  pathways  scored  the  hill,  like  the  varied  lines 
scratched  by  science  on  a  terrestrial  globe ;  but  ridge 
after  ridge  and  billow  upon  billow  the  Beacon  swept 
above  these  assaults  and  finally  rose  unconquered  to  its 
crown. 

At  a  height  of  about  a  thousand  feet  Charles  Tre- 
vail  called  the  first  halt  and  made  Lizzie  rest  awhile 
above  Horder's  Wood.  The  bosky  valley  of  Taw 
wound  away  immediately  before  them,  and  South 
Tawton's  tower  peeped  above  its  grove;  while  far 
beneath,  upon  their  right  hand,  like  a  brown  and  blue 
snake,  wound  Zeal's  solitary  and  straight  street  across 
the  meadows  of  hill  and  vale.  Easterly  rose  the  build- 
ings and  nakedness  of  Red  Wheal ;  while  to  the  parallel 
bright  ridges  of  the  distant  sky,  earth  spread,  in  her 
darkness  of  high  summer  foliage  and  brightness  of 
barley  and  of  wheat. 

Elisabeth  beheld  all  and  found  herself  moved  to  a 
wonder  beyond  words.  Such  far  horizons  were  a  new 
vision  to  her.     The  man  talked  and  told  her  the  names 


THE  BEACON  41 

of  the  villages  and  hills,  showed  her  where  rolled  the 
Severn  Sea,  where  Exmoor  stretched  grey  against  the 
north,  and  where  his  own  farm  might  be  seen  at  their 
feet  beyond  the  great  quarry.  She  listened  without 
comment,  but  in  reality  she  heard  only  a  little  of  what 
he  uttered,  for  her  mind  was  absorbed  by  the  first 
great  natural  view  of  earth  that  her  eyes  had  ever 
seen. 

Yet  presently  she  could  find  it  in  her  to  turn  to  him, 
listen  to  him  and  thank  him  for  showing  her  this 
wonder.  She  did  not  yet  see  him  small  against  his 
background.  That  was  to  come.  For  the  moment 
she  felt  that  he  had  shown  her  a  precious  sight  and 
that  she  must  thank  him  deeply  for  doing  so.  And 
his  apparent  knowledge  of  this  theatre  and  familiarity 
with  each  hamlet  and  twinkling  atom  of  a  dwelling 
spread  within  it  was  remarkable  to  her.  He  em- 
braced a  world  with  a  sweep  of  his  arm.  His  in- 
difference to  such  immensity  seemed  fine  and  she  read 
a  sort  of  greatness  into  it.  She  was  ever  swift  to  mark 
the  manlike  in  man  and  ever  glad  to  welcome  it. 
Now,  in  a  mood  rather  emotional  before  this  glimpse 
of  summer  earth,  she  glorified  Mr.  Trevail  a  little 
with  the  rest.  His  handsome  face  was  handsomer 
for  his  climb;  his  limitations  of  ambition  and  intellect 
she  did  not  yet  perceive  as  serious  faults. 

But  presently  a  side  of  him  was  revealed  in  senti- 
ments that  gave  her  little  joy. 

They  climbed  on,  and  when  they  had  ascended 
some  hundred  yards  higher  up  Cosdon's  side,  the 
village  beneath  was  hidden  from  them ;  the  forest  trees 
disappeared  and  the  upper  loneliness  of  the  Beacon 
began  to  encompass  them  and  make  itself  felt.  Tre- 
vail did  not  share  his  companion's  increasing  ex- 
citement. 

"  I  hate  it  up  here,"  he  said.  "  Down  lower  the 
sight  of  the  houses  and  lew  places  makes  all  this  bear- 
able by  contrast — for  the  feeling  of  thankfulness  that 


42  THE  BEACON 

home  is  there  and  not  up  here.  But  once  you  lose 
sight  of  them,  like  we  have  now,  and  find  nought  but 
mire  and  rocks  and  desert  round  us — miles  and  miles 
of  it — well,  then  I  feel  daunted  for  one,  and  so  will 
you.  I  like  the  '  in  country  '  and  haven't  got  no  use 
for  the  Moor,  though  some  get  joy  of  it  I  grant  you. 
'Tis  what  you've  been  born  to.  That  chap,  Reynold 
Dunning,  neighbours  very  kindly  with  it.  But  he's 
like  it  himself  in  a  way — harsh  and  rough  and  a  bit 
brutal." 

"  I  seem  as  if  I'd  been  waiting  for  this  all  my  life," 
answered  the  other.  "  'Tis  terrible  grand,  I  think. 
I  was  told  I'd  love  it,  or  hate  it.  A  friend  I  had  in 
London  said  that.  '  There's  no  half  measures  with 
the  Moor,'  he  said.  '  You'll  love  it  or  you'll  hate  it.' 
And  he  went  on  to  say  he  thought  that  I'd  love  it; 
and  he  was  right." 

"Who  was  he  then?  I've  never  heard  you  name 
him  afore." 

He  spoke  sharply  and  she  knew  that  he  was  jealous. 
For  a  brief  moment  he  bored  her.  Any  display  of 
such  emotion  at  this  moment  was  jejune. 

"  Don't  be  talking.  Let  me  just  suck  this  in  as  we 
go  along.  I  understand  a  bit  already.  A  keen, 
searching  place  in  winter,  I  warrant !  " 

"  Who  was  the  man  who  told  you  about  it? 

She  paid  no  attention  and  Mr.  Trevail  felt  con- 
sumed with  irritation.  Then  he  answered  her  last 
remark. 

"  Yes,  in  winter  the  very  birds  leave  it,  I  believe. 
'Tis  like  a  fierce,  wild  beast  sometimes  then.  No 
man  have  ever  tamed  Cosdon,  though  you  can  see 
how  often  they  have  tried  to  do  so." 

She  was  thinking  and  feeling.  The  heath  seemed 
to  stretch  out  invisible  hands  to  her.  It  happens  in 
the  world  sometimes  that  there  are  arenas  of  life 
whither  we  come,  not  only  to  find  them  and  feed  upon 
their  disclosures,  but  to  find  ourselves  also.     The  Bea- 


>* 


THE  BEACON  43 

con  now,  as  it  rolled  upward  before  her,  began  to 
quicken  the  mind  of  Elisabeth  Densham.  She  felt 
that  she  had  met  a  friend  and  a  spark  of  sentiment 
touched  her. 

'  I'll  always  remember  that  you  were  the  first  to 
show  me  all  this,"  she  said  suddenly. 

'  I'll  show  you  what  is  a  deal  better  in  the  valley." 

"  Never !  Give  me  the  thing  that's  not  been  tamed, 
as  you  said  just  now." 

"  Not  been  tamed  I  grant — but  it  have  tamed  a 
good  many  others — broken  them  you  might  say  in 
heart  and  pocket." 

She  laughed. 

"  My  pocket's  empty.  And  it  won't  break  my 
heart." 

"  Don't  get  too  fond  of  it.  Belike  'twill  make  you 
hard,  like  itself,  if  you  were  to." 

"  I  don't  feel  'tis  hard,"  she  declared. 

"  It  is  though — a  snarling  thing  at  odds  with  the 
winds  that  batter  it,  and  the  frosts  that  freeze  it,  and 
the  men  that  come  to  it  to  tear  peat  and  gravel  out 
of  it.  It  makes  the  people  hard,  I  tell  you.  A  Moor- 
man's always  as  hard  again  as  a  man  from  the  valleys. 
My  uncle's  got  a  saying:  '  If  you  want  to  the  'appy 
you  must  be  'ard.'  And  I  suppose  that's  what  this 
place  has  taught  him." 

She  shook  her  head.  A  side  of  her  he  had  not  seen 
flashed  up. 

They  stood  among  the  cairns  at  last  and  he  ex- 
plained that  they  were  graves  of  '  the  old  men.' 

"  Of  a  night  you  could  see  their  ghosts,  I  daresay," 
she  said.  "  I'm  a  great  reader,  I  must  tell  you,  and 
I've  a  power  of  picturing  things.  This  hill,  that  you 
call  lonely,  don't  seem  so  to  me.  I'd  find  all  sorts  of 
queer  living  creatures  about  it  in  time." 

"  Pixies  and  all  that.  But  surely  you'd  laugh  at 
such  silly  nonsense?  Even  old  gaffers  are  ashamed  to 
name  it  nowadays." 


44  THE  BEACON 

'  I  might  or  I  might  not,"  she  answered.  "  I  be- 
lieve in  ghosts  anyway.  And  why  shouldn't  I  ?  And 
I'll  make  my  own  stories  about  Dartmoor  and  the 
stones  and  things.  I  don't  want  the  old  stories.  I'll 
have  fresh  ones." 

'  The  old  ones  are  queer  enough.  I  can  tell  you  a 
few.  But  nowadays  such  nonsense  is  dead  and  gone. 
The  schools  have  sent  it  to  the  right  about." 

She  asked  many  questions,  but  they  were  chiefly 
such  as  Charles  could  not  answer. 

At  the  summit  of  the  Beacon  was  rough,  broken 
ground  over  which  a  fierce  west  wind  roared  mightily, 
while  the  crystal  air  throbbed  at  heath  level  along 
the  lifting  planes  of  the  hill.  Earth  hereabouts  was 
torn  and  deeply  scarred.  A  torrent  had  scratched 
Cosdon  to  her  granite  bones  and  left  a  deep  wound 
in  the  black  peat ;  a  wilderness  of  stone  scattered  the 
waste  and  great  patches  of  sward  stretched  upon  it. 
Here,  too,  were  rhomboidal  scars  where  man  had 
stripped  the  pelt  off  the  hill  and  carried  it  away. 
Bilberry,  heath  and  furze  made  a  spasmodic  splen- 
dour, but  the  summit  of  the  hill,  where  the  actual 
beacon  pile  of  grey  granite  crowned  all,  was  desolate 
with  mire  and  sedge  and  morass. 

Lizzie  stared  about  her  and  the  man  found  himself 
forgotten  for  a  season. 

"  I've  never  seen  so  much  of  the  world  all  at  once 
before,"  she  said.  "  It's  wonderful ;  it's  wonderful. 
I'd  like  to  be  buried  here  myself  when  I  die;  but  I 
don't  want  to  die:  I  never  want  to  die.  Oh,  if  I 
could  come  here  every  day  of  my  life,  I'd  never  die! ': 

"  'Tis  what  they  call  a  free  horizon — a  very  fine 
view  no  doubt.  But  all  the  same  I'd  sooner  see  the 
Beacon  from  North  Combe,  than  North  Combe  from 
the  Beacon." 

"You  don't  care  for  it?" 

"  No  more  than  I  care  for  the  inky  berries  the 
people  gather  off  it." 


THE  BEACON  45 

They  sat  sheltered  from  the  wind  by  a  great  ring 
of  piled  stones  at  the  summit.  He  pointed  out  Chag- 
ford  and  Moreton,  Hameldown  and  Hey  Tor  far 
away  to  the  south,  the  valley  of  Teign  and  the  mouth 
of  Teign  open  to  the  misty  sea. 

"  That's  Throwleigh  down  under,"  he  said,  "  and 
the  common's  called  Clannaboro' — the  same  as  Dun- 
ning's  farm." 

She  asked  the  name  of  knap  and  knoll  and  hamlet 
in  the  encircling  panorama.  Some  he  knew,  but  those 
without  the  radius  of  his  own  activities  were  for  the 
most  part  unknown  to  him.  Unconsciously  he  let  it 
be  perceived  how  narrow  was  his  own  sphere.  It  lay 
far  within  the  horizons  now  lifting  round  Elisabeth. 
She  felt  disappointed  at  this,  and  the  more  so  because, 
within  an  hour,  they  met  one  whose  pur-view  em- 
braced a  wider  range  than  Trevail's  and  whose  knowl- 
edge was  greater,  though  his  limitations  were  also 
greater. 

Silence  fell  between  them;  then  Charles  uttered  a 
violent  expression  of  annoyance  and  used  an  oath. 

"  Be  damned  if  he  isn't  coming  here!  "  he  said,  and 
pointed  to  a  horseman  who  climbed  the  hill  from  the 
south  above  Rayborrow  Pool.  Lizzie  was  not  yet 
trained  of  eyesight  to  see  at  so  great  a  distance. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked,  and  the  other 
pointed  below. 

"  'Tis  Dunning,  and  he's  coming  here." 

"What  if  he  is?" 

He  uttered  a  sound  of  impatience  but  made  no  other 
reply.  Then  he  resigned  himself,  scowled  at  the 
rider  and  took  a  pipe  from  his  pocket.  Dunning  was 
beside  them  in  five  minutes.  He  had  seen  them  long- 
ago,  when  they  began  their  ascent,  had  guessed  the 
Beacon  was  their  goal,  and  had  determined  with  him- 
self to  surprise  them  there.  He  knew  exactly  what 
must  be  the  state  of  Trevail's  feelings;  but  that  did 
not  trouble  him.     He  entertained  no  admiration  for 


46  THE  BEACON 

Charles,  but  held  him  a  slight  thing  and  little  more 
than  his  uncle's  creature. 

He  was  callous  now  and  ignored  the  younger  man's 
annoyance.  He  began  talking  to  Lizzie  and  interest- 
ing her,  albeit  she  understood  very  well  that  by  all 
laws  of  good  manners  Dunning  should  not  have  thrust 
himself  upon  this  walk.  But  he  was  arresting.  He 
knew  far  more  of  the  world  outspread  beneath  them 
than  did  Charles  and  her  enthusiasm  for  the  Beacon 
won  from  him  the  heartiest  commendation. 

Usually  silent,  and  sometimes  cynical,  here,  on  his 
native  heath,  he  appeared  more  human  and  unsophis- 
ticated. He  told  her  the  names  of  the  grasses  under 
her  feet.  He  spoke  of  the  fragrant  candleberry  myrtle 
that  grew  not  a  mile  off  on  the  slopes  above  Taw  and 
offered  to  lead  Elisabeth  to  it. 

With  unconcealed  ill-humour  Trevail  acceded  to 
the  interruption.  He  walked  on  one  side  of  the  girl, 
and  Dunning,  dismounting,  proceeded  upon  the  other. 

Words  passed  between  them  presently  and  the  mas- 
ter of  Clannaboro'  proved  by  much  the  mightier  with 
those  weapons.  It  was  Trevail  who  provoked  the  at- 
tack, but  showed  himself  quite  unequal  to  repelling  it 
when  the  elder  man  hit  back. 

"  So  my  uncle  was  one  too  many  for  you  at  Oke- 
hampton  I  hear?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  was,"  admitted  Dunning.  "  He's  one  too 
many  for  most  plain-dealers.  A  very  hateful  fashion 
of  man." 

"  You  don't  hate  him  worse  than  he  hates  you." 

"  Probably  not.  We  always  hate  them  we've 
wronged.  And  time  and  again  he's  wronged  me. 
No  tongue  likes  a  sharp  tooth,  and  a  sharp  tooth  he's 
been  to  me  ever  since  I  tried  to  get  the  limestone 
quarry  away  from  him  and  failed.  But  I'll  try  again 
and  not  fail.  I've  got  the  pull  of  him  by  fifteen  years, 
and  they  laugh  best  who  laugh  last.  A  man  who 
ban't  content  with  honest  gain,  and  who's  only  pleas- 


THE  BEACON  47 

ure  is  to  shut  other  men  out  from  prosperity  if  he 
can — such  a  man's  place  is  the  horse-pond;  and  there 
'  Iron '  Mortimore  should  be  thrown  if  I  had  my 
will  of  him." 

"  You  speak  as  one  who's  felt  his  lash  and  deserved 
to  feel  it,"  answered  Trevail. 

"  Yes,  every  man  who  doesn't  knuckle  under  and 
sing  small  falls  foul  of  him.  The  man  that's  friendly 
with  him  is  a  second-rater — same  as  you.  You're  the 
mean  sort  that  only  think  which  side  your  bread  is 
buttered  and  cares  not  for  anything  else — the  spaniel 
sort  that  don't  count  in  the  world.  We  must  have 
'em,  but  to  us  they're  no  more  than  the  ground  we 
walk  on." 

Here  the  woman  protested. 

"  If  you've  only  come  to  quarrel,  Mr.  Dunning,  I'd 
liefer  you  were  away,"  she  said. 

"  Quite  right,"  he  answered  instantly.  "  Quarrels 
of  men  look  what  they  are  up  here — no  more  than  the 
fighting  of  ants.  'Twas  only  the  mention  of  his  uncle 
put  my  back  up.  I  forgot  my  company.  I  respect 
Mortimore  for  his  strength,  though  I  hate  him  for 
himself." 

Trevail  expressed  regret  also. 

"  We  can  talk  about  it  another  time  if  you  want  to," 
he  said.  "  'Twas  I  began  it,  and  I'm  sorry  I  did. 
'Twasn't  civil.     But  you  vexed  me  by  coming  to  join 


us." 


"  I  knew  Miss  Densham  wanted  to  climb  the  Beacon 
and  I  was  set  on  hearing  what  she  thought  of  it." 

Elisabeth  talked  and  Trevail  sulked.  Then  sud- 
denly, with  an  abruptness  in  leave-taking  peculiar  to 
him,  Dunning  mounted  and  left  them. 

"  I'm  not  wanted  in  this  party,"  he  said.  "  Another 
time  perhaps.  What  I  don't  know  about  Cosdon  Bea- 
con is  like  what  Charles  here  do  know  about  it — not 
worth  knowing.  Some  other  day  then.  Yonder's  the 
candleberry  by  that  stream  on  ahead." 


48  THE  BEACON 

He  galloped  off  without  any  sort  of  salute  or  fare- 
well. 

"  That's  Moore  manners,"  declared  Trevail,  while 
Lizzie  laughed.  "  Doesn't  even  wear  Sunday  clothes, 
you  see." 

"  He's  rough  and  queer,  but  he's  a  pretty  strong, 
fearless  sort  of  man  seemingly.  His  clothes  suit  the 
place  somehow  better  than  ours." 

The  subtlety  of  the  observation  was  quite  wasted 
on  Trevail. 

"  He's  rough  enough,  as  you  say,  and  he  hates  my 
Uncle  Abraham.  He  was  different  when  his  mother 
lived.  He's  what  I  call  an  uncomfortable  sort  of  man. 
Rasps  you  whenever  you  meet  him." 

"  You  began  it  though." 

"  He  put  me  out  by  coming  to  us.  'Twasn't  fair  or 
proper." 

"  Well,  leave  it,  please.     He's  gone  now." 

"  I  believe  you  like  him." 

"  How  could  I  ?  Don't  know  anything  at  all  about 
him.     Here's  the  place.     Are  these  little  trees — ?" 

They  were  come  to  a  spot  where  marshes  fell  in 
steps  between  tussocks  of  grass  and  heather.  Through 
the  midst  a  stream  ran  over  granite  gravel  and 
splinters  of  quartz.  It  dropped  here  and  there  in  lit- 
tle falls,  where  grass  hung  with  dripping,  sodden 
beards ;  and  along  its  way  sprang  clumps  of  neat  sage- 
green  bushes. 

"  That's  the  bog-myrtle,"  said  Charles.  He  plucked 
some  sprigs  in  fruit  and  handed  them  to  her.  "  Crush 
the  leaves  and  smell  'em.  You'd  never  think  such  a 
sweet  thing  could  live  on  Cosdon." 

Lizzie  obeyed  and  enjoyed  the  scent  of  this  fragrant 
foliage. 

"  Lovely !  "  she  cried.  "  And  why  shouldn't  it  come 
from  here?  I  never  smelt  anything  so  good.  I'll 
never  buy  another  bottle  of  scent  again.  I  love  it. 
'Tis  the  Beacon's  own  smell !  " 


THE  BEACON  49 

She  gathered  some  to  take  home  with  her. 

"  I've  been  on  the  lookout  all  this  while  for  a  bit 
of  white  heather,"  he  said.  "  'Twas  thought  to  mean 
luck,  and  I  daresay  you'd  believe  that." 

"  No !  I  believe  in  finding  your  own  luck.  No- 
body else  can  find  it  for  you." 

This  sentiment  chilled  him,  though  he  did  not  know 
why.  He  had  made  a  little  plot  with  himself  and  re- 
solved that  if  he  found  white  heather  he  would  give 
it  to  her  and  ask  for  something  in  exchange.  He 
had  soared  to  the  thought  of  a  kiss.  But  now  he 
drooped  and  felt  the  idea  many  sizes  too  bold. 

The  smell  of  the  sweet  gale  rejoiced  Lizzie.  Sev- 
eral times  she  stopped  and  crushed  a  leaf  of  it  and  put 
her  nose  to  it  and  shut  her  eyes,  that  vision  might  not 
interfere  with  complete  satisfaction  of  the  lesser  sense. 

They  returned  presently  through  the  valley  of  the 
Taw,  and  the  girl  became  very  quiet  when  they  had 
descended.     She  often  stood  still  and  looked  back. 

"  I'm  sorry  in  a  silly  sort  of  way  to  have  fetched 
these  poor  little  leaves  from  their  home,"  she  said. 

He  tried  to  become  personal,  but  failed.  He  felt 
physically  weary  and  mentally  numb  before  they  re- 
turned to  Zeal ;  but  her  parting  words  served  largely  to 
console  him. 

"  Thank  you  very,  very  much,  Mr  Trevail.  'Twas 
more  than  kind  to  spend  such  a  long  time  with  me." 

"  Don't  you  say  that.  I'll  spend  as  long  a  time 
with  you  as  ever  you  like,  and  as  often  as  you  like," 
he  answered. 

He  shook  her  hand  while  he  spoke  and  held  it  some 
moments  afterwards.  She  looked  into  his  face  with 
grateful  eyes  that  seemed  to  cry  for  kissing. 

"  By  God,  you're  lovely !  "  he  said  under  his  breath 
to  her.  Then  he  hurried  off  without  waiting  to  see 
how  she  took  it. 

He  did  not  sleep  that  night. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MISS  FANNY  CANN,  while  easy  with  her  own 
sex,  could  be  exceedingly  severe  when  chance 
put  her  in  authority  over  the  other.  Thus  during 
the  fortnight  of  her  nephew's  honeymoon,  when  she 
reigned  at  the  Oxenham  Arms,  the  men  and  boys  em- 
ployed there  found  little  leisure,  but  Elisabeth,  Nelly, 
the  cook  and  a  young  girl  who  completed  the  staff, 
had  no  cause  to  complain. 

Thus  it  happened  that  the  newcomer  began  her 
ministrations  under  gentle  auspices.  She  found  time 
for  thought  and  time  for  happiness,  apart  from  work. 
Miss  Cann  liked  her  and  unquestionably  spoiled  her. 
With  the  elasticity  of  a  youthful  mind  Lizzie  Densham 
threw  herself  into  the  new  interests  and  the  new  life. 
She  wondered  not  a  little  sometimes  to  think  of  the 
great  gulf  of  experience  that  separated  her  from  the 
old  days.  London  had  vanished  like  a  roaring  dream. 
Its  sounds  were  stilled ;  its  sordid  aspect,  as  seen  from 
her  standpoint,  was  cleaned  out  of  her  spirit.  Here  it 
seemed  to  her  that  poverty  was  not  so  mean.  She  was 
quick  to  think  well  of  the  people  and  grateful  for  the 
spirit  of  goodwill  and  friendship  they  extended  to 
herself.  It  seemed  impossible  that  such  immense  in- 
terests should  have  risen  in  her  lonely  life  so  swiftly. 
Yet  they  had  done  so.  Nature  was  speaking  to  her 
through  the  mouth  of  the  Moor,  and,  beyond  that,  as 
a  thing  her  brains  told  her  must  be  more  vital  still, 
there  stood  a  man  at  the  door  of  her  life  and  loved 
her.  She  felt  no  aversion  from  him ;  she  guessed,  in- 
deed, that  she  might  presently  love  him  and  be  useful 
to  him.     It  was  the  thought  of  the  power  of  service 

So 


THE  BEACON  51 

that  attracted  her  to  him,  and  his  unconscious  revela- 
tions of  some  weakness,  accentuating  the  possibility  of 
that  power,  by  no  means  repelled  her. 

At  present,  however,  rustic  life  in  its  sharp  antago- 
nism to  the  policy  of  cities,  most  profoundly  affected 
Elisabeth.  And  the  Beacon  it  was,  rather  than  the 
rural  order  of  the  hamlet,  that  spoke  this  great  mes- 
sage. She  came,  as  a  child  comes  to  to-morrow,  with 
a  mind  upon  which  experience  had  bitten  nothing  very 
deep;  her  new  environment  spread  gentle  and  kindly 
arms  to  her;  the  watch-tower  lifted  above  it  had  al- 
ready uttered  one  salutary  word  and  lifted  her  young 
heart  to  heights  unfelt  till  now. 

She  first  saw  the  hill  at  its  gayest,  when  that  brief, 
brilliant  hour  before  autumn  bedecked  Cosdon.  She 
marked  much  and  more  every  day.  A  general  per- 
ception of  the  splendour  of  it  became  a  pleasant,  grate- 
ful passage  of  thought,  where  her  mind  often  joyed  to 
tarry.  As  yet  there  was  no  nice  observation  of  detail : 
she  was  still  busy  with  appreciation  of  large  partic- 
ulars. The  dozen  different  shades  of  roses  and  pink 
in  a  long  patch;  the  play  of  dead  grass  blades  flashing 
upon  living  herbage;  the  shadows  of  clouds  and  the 
changed  purple  of  the  heather  light  subdued  thereby; 
the  flickering  colours  of  the  granite  and  the  altered 
harmonies  of  all  great  and  lesser  relations  at  the  chal- 
lenge of  the  sky — these  things  she  had  not  seen.  And 
they  mattered  not  at  all.  For  her  awoke  a  hungry 
and  thirsty  joy  of  the  place.  She  read  into  it  all  man- 
ner of  meanings  and  waited  eagerly,  sometimes  fear- 
fully, for  fresh  revelations.  The  Beacon  explained 
things  in  herself  that  she  had  not  understood.  Within 
a  month  she  yearned  for  it  and  felt  no  week  quite 
full  that  had  not  found  her  feet  climbing  the  hill.  Cos- 
don's  rounded  mass  upon  the  sky  and  its  diurnal  mes- 
sage through  sun  and  storm,  winter  snow  and  summer 
cloud,  in  halo  of  moonlight  and  nimbus  of  mist — each 
manifestation  in  its  turn  would  surely  be  good.     She 


52  THE  BEACON 

loved  everything,  to  the  least  hollow  and  secret  spring 
and  hidden  place  of  flowers. 

She   was  a  superstitious  woman  and  enjoyed  the 
emotion  of  possible  presences  unseen,  and  of  phenom- 
ena   not    understood.     These    often    greeted    her    in 
Cosdon's  arcana,  but  they  never  came  when  she  had  a 
companion,   and   sometimes,   therefore,   she   took   her 
weekly  walk  alone,  that  the  gods  of  wood  and  waste 
might  see  her  unattended  and  whisper  to  her.     She 
accepted  no  myth  of  old  time  from  any  mouth.     Only 
some  old  woman's  doubtful  mumbling  of  pixies  was 
received  and  translated  into  her  personal  imaginings. 
There  was  a  little  art  in  her,  that  had  perhaps  found 
a  medium  had  she  been  born  to  a  different  environ- 
ment.    But  the  germ  was  destined  not  to  put  forth 
other    fruit    than    dreams.     Such    visions    trembled 
mistily,  like  rainbows,  upon  her  own  heart,  and  van- 
ished there,  when  the  sun  that  lighted  them  had  set. 
Life  brought  her  much,  but  nothing  supremely  pre- 
cious, nothing  of  a  sort  to  unseal  the  fountains  of  the 
deep  for  her.     And  that  is  the  common  way  of  things, 
for  much  minor  beauty  of  thought  and  much  hum- 
ble creative  power  are  lost  by  accident  or  garnered 
only   by   good   chance.     The   giant   spirits   cry   their 
mighty  news  for  all  time,  and  issue  forth  from  art's 
many  mansions  indifferent  to  their  greeting,  jealous 
only  for  the  imperishable  treasure  intrusted  to  them ; 
but  many  lesser  messages — sane,  sweet,  valuable — de- 
pend for  their  existence  upon  the  accident  of  sympathy 
and  understanding  and  environment.     Love  has  been 
the  tender  nurse  of  many  lovely  things.     But  Elisabeth 
saw  the  new  world  as  a  barmaid  and  inchoate  dreams 
were  all  that  resulted.     The  effect  of  the  change  upon 
herself,  however,  was  valuable.     It  touched  her  spirit 
finely,  because  there  was  that  in  her  waiting  for  these 
things  and  now  hurrying  to  meet  them. 

Nelly  Jope  foretold  that  their  liberties  and  leisure 
would  be  much  curtailed  when  Mr.  Underhill  and  his 


THE  BEACON  53 

wife  returned  home,  and  she  was  right.  The  new 
mistress  began  as  she  intended  to  proceed;  Aunt 
Fanny  returned  to  her  cottage  on  the  edge  of  Cosdon; 
the  men  breathed  again ;  the  women  soon  felt  that  a 
holiday  had  ended.  The  demoralisation  of  transitory 
ease  bore  fruit  in  one  direction,  for  the  cook  gave 
warning.  In  a  week  she  reconsidered  this  step  and 
proposed  to  stay,  but  the  new  mistress  belonged  to  a 
Spartan  order.  The  cook  was  not  permitted  to 
change  her  mind,  and  a  stable-man,  to  whom  she  was 
affianced,  reluctantly  departed  also.  Tom  Under- 
bill had  much  desired  to  keep  this  man,  and  the  ques- 
tion bred  the  first  difference  between  him  and  his 
wife.  Each  felt,  hidden  from  the  other,  that  the 
matter  was  far  more  tremendous  than  on  its  face  it 
appeared;  each  understood  that  precedent  was  about 
to  be  created.  The  affair  kept  them  waking  at  night, 
and  indirectly  it  banished  sleep  from  other  eyes. 
Tom  Underbill's  voice,  while  pitched  in  a  key  not 
very  masculine  was  of  a  penetrating  calibre,  and  while 
he  argued,  Lizzie  in  her  chamber,  and  Nelly  and  the 
cook,  who  shared  another  not  far  off,  were  kept  awake. 

Tom  tossed  and  turned,  but  his  wife  remained 
motionless.  She  lay  on  her  back  and  swung  up  and 
down  easily,  like  a  light  ship  at  anchor,  while  her  hus- 
band's bulk  set  the  bed  shaking. 

"  I  killed  my  old  dog  because  you  didn't  like  him  in 
the  parlour,  though  he'd  have  held  out  another  year 
if  I  hadn't,"  said  the  man.  "  I  did  that  for  you,  and 
now  'tis  your  turn  to  meet  me  I  should  think.  I 
can't  let  Bill  go.  He's  very  useful  and  very  clever. 
And  she's  a  rare  good  cook — you  can't  deny  that.  So 
if  she  sees  she  was  mistaken,  and  is  sorry  for  it,  well, 
who  can  do  more  ?  '' 

"  I'll  never  take  back  a  servant  that's  once  given 
notice.  'Tis  a  question  of  right  and  wrong.  When  I 
was  to  service  myself  I  learned  all  about  that.  She's 
got  to  go,  and  if  she's  that  malicious  to  make  William 


54  THE  BEACON 

go  too,  don't  that  show  what  she  is?  Be  you  to  be 
dictated  to  by  your  servants?  Not  if  I'm  anybody. 
You've  been  too  easy  all  your  life  and  'tis  time  I 
was  here  to  look  after  your  interests;  and  I'm  going 
to." 

He  heaved  about  and  snorted. 

"  If  she  couldn't  cook  I'd  say  nothing." 

"  She  can  cook — I  know  that.  That's  what  she's 
here  for.  But  you're  like  all  men:  if  you  get  a  decent 
servant  you  think  you've  found  the  only  one,  and 
that  the  world  will  come  to  an  end  if  you  have  to 
change.  She's  going,  Tom,  and  you  know  very  well, 
as  a  self-respecting  woman,  that  I've  got  to  make 
her." 

"  'Twill  upset  all  the  others,"  he  grumbled.  "  You 
know  what  they  be — like  sheep.  If  one  goes,  the 
others  will  be  after  her." 

"  Let  'em.  'Tis  a  free  country.  'Twouldn't  sur- 
prise me  either.  After  your  easy  ways,  'tis  like 
enough  the  men  and  women  both  will  find  the  new 
style  irk  'em  a  bit." 

"  If  I'd  known — "  he  began,  but  she  cut  him  short. 

"  You  did  know,"  she  said.  "  Now,  my  dear,  good 
man,  don't  you  begin  like  that.  You  knew — as  well 
as  you  knew  the  price  of  beer — what  I  was.  I  never 
hid  it ;  I  never  pretended  I  was  different.  The  very 
day  you  offered  and  I  said  '  Yes,'  I  told  you  what  I 
wanted  and  meant  to  have.  The  Burgoynes  are  all 
the  same — every  blessed  one  of  'em.  We've  got  a 
good  conceit  of  ourselves,  and  why  not?  And  we  will 
have  our  money's  worth  and  why  not?  And  we  will 
have  things  just  so,  and  why  not?  " 

"  The  men  be  my  part  and  you  oughtn't  to  interfere 
in  that." 

"  Granted.  I  never  shall.  'Tis  very  unfortunate 
indeed,  but  you  can't  keep  men  away  from  women." 

"  Bill's  got  to  choose  between  us  and  his  girl.  Well, 
naturally — " 


THE   BEACON  55 

"  And  I've  got  to  choose  between  what  I  think  right 
and  what  I  think  wrong.     Well,  naturally  again — " 

"But  ban't  I  nobody?  Don't  my  wish  count?  If 
I'm  set  on  it — surely  then,  Minnie?  Besides,  'tis  no 
question  of  right  and  wrong  at  all.  'Tis  only  a  ques- 
tion of  opinion.  Look  at  it  in  the  large.  The  girl 
gives  notice  in  a  minute  of  temper.  Who's  always 
wise?     'Twas  a  silly  thing  and  she  repented — " 

"  Yes,  after  she  found  she  couldn't  get  the  place 
she  wanted  to  Okehampton." 

1  No  matter  for  that.  She  repented  and  said  she 
was  sorry,  and — and — "  He  turned  over  and  put  his 
great  arms  round  her  and  hugged  her  up  close  to  him- 
self and  rubbed  his  cheeks  against  hers. 

'  Be  sporting  about  it !  I  want  Bill  very  bad.  I 
ax  as  a  favour.  I  won't  forget  it  if  you  can  meet  me. 
'Twill  be  a  jolly  fine  thing  in  you  to  give  way — just 
this  once.  And  you  know  me.  I'll  give  way  twenty 
times  for  your  once — you  see  if  I  don't." 

He  coaxed  with  elephantine  love-making,  but  she 
would  not  yield.  So  he  released  her,  and  swore,  and 
ordered  her  to  be  silent  when  she  began  to  speak  again. 
In  this  particular  she  obeyed,  but  it  was  dawn  before 
either  of  them  slept. 

Thus  there  opened  before  Lizzie's  eyes  and  mind 
another  interest :  the  early  scenes  of  a  drama  whose 
players  were  a  disparate  twain  drawn  together  by  the 
sleight  of  love,  and  subsequently  chained  together  by 
the  law  of  man.  Life  was  interesting  from  every 
standpoint.  She  found  matter  for  laughter  and  re- 
gret, for  sympathy  and  antipathy,  for  wonder  and  all 
the  shades  of  emotion  between  wonder  and  fear. 

With  time  there  emerged  steadily,  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  Beacon,  the  figures  of  two  men,  who 
surpassed  in  interest  all  other  human  beings  she  had 
known.  One  had  forced  himself  upon  her  from  the 
first;  the  other,  in  a  manner  verv  different,  similarly 
stood  out  from  the  rest.     The  company  of  the  Oxen- 


56  THE  BEACON 

ham  Arms  were  but  the  crowded  middle  distance 
of  a  picture  for  twin  protagonists  in  the  foreground. 
One  man  was  humble,  obstinate,  generous,  kind  and 
weak;  the  other  was  sardonic,  covert,  harsh  and 
strong. 

Trevail's  attitude  and  intentions  were  obvious,  and 
she  had  come  to  take  them  for  granted.  She  liked 
him  and  Dunning  she  did  not  like ;  but  Dunning  was  far 
the  more  interesting  man.  His  thoughts  went  deeper 
and  challenged  more  approval  or  censure.  He  seldom 
dealt  in  the  obvious  thing,  and  generally  took  a  pleas- 
ure in  denying  the  obvious  thing.  When  he  was  in 
the  bar  platitudes  perished,  and  talk  became  a  tameness 
when  he  was  silent.  There  was  one  other  man  built  in 
a  similar  pattern,  but  his  taciturnity  and  acerbity 
were  greater  than  Dunning's.  Abraham  Mortimore's 
native  genius  cut  him  off  from  the  company  of  fellow- 
creatures.  Them  he  only  regarded  as  means  to  an 
end,  as  the  pieces  on  that  board  where  he  was  playing 
his  own  game  of  life  single-handed.  But  Dunning 
did  not  eschew  men.  He  affected  them.  He  possessed 
a  cynical  mind,  but  one  not  misanthropic.  His  atti- 
tude to  women  had,  however,  been  very  narrow  all 
his  life.  From  his  mother  onward  he  had  dominated 
them  unconsciously.  He  was  that  sort  of  man  who 
exudes  a  masculine  atmosphere  and  wins  the  sex 
without  an  effort.  He  owned  a  power  not  to  be  ac- 
quired and  not  necessarily  used  by  the  possessor — a 
power  often  denied  to  the  professed  amorist  and  often 
wasted  as  a  natural  gift  on  one  who  care  nothing  for 
women. 

Dunning  had  cared  nothing  for  them  until  now, 
but  the  tables  were  turned  at  last,  and  not  a  few  who 
had  suffered  at  heart  for  him,  and  loathed  him  while 
they  loved  him,  were  to  see  the  man  enslaved  and 
their  sex  indemnified  for  his  slighting. 

Quick  eyes  and  hungry  hearts  here  and  there  marked 
the  thing  that  had  happened,  and  a  few  females  bosoms 


THE  BEACON  51 

fluttered  in  secret  to  know  the  bear  of  Clannaboro' 
was  in  love.  Certainly  few  wished  him  good  court- 
ing or  any  joy  of  it. 

He  moved  slowly,  but  he  was  always  interesting 
to  Elisabeth  Densham,  even  when  he  angered  her. 
Then  there  came  a  day  in  the  bar  when  Dunning  and 
Trevail  met,  and  the  former  reminded  her  of  a  prom- 
ise. 

Trevail  was  about  to  depart  and  spoke  as  he  did  so. 

"  You'll  meet  me  to-morrow  and  we'll  go  down  in 
the  valley.  You  promised,  if  I  went  again  to  the 
Beacon  last  Sunday,  you'd  come  to  the  valley  next 
time." 

"  She  can't,"  said  Dunning,  shortly.  "  On  Friday 
of  last  week  Miss  Densham  told  me  that  she'd  come 
and  see  Clannaboro'  and  stop  tea  along  with  Mrs. 
Vallance  and  Noah  and  me.  'Twasn't  convenient  to 
ask  her  sooner,  or  very  like  I  should  have  done. 
She  promised,  however." 

"  Did  I  ? "  asked  Lizzie,  a  glass  in  one  hand,  a 
duster  in  the  other. 

"  Don't  say  '  Did  I '  ?  You  know  you  did.  You've 
got  a  very  good  memory,  as  I've  proved." 

"  I  did — I  remember." 

"  I  hold  you  to  it.  We'll  go  up  the  hill  if  'tis  fair 
weather.  You  can  mess  about  in  the  valley  with 
Charles  here  another  dav." 

"  I'll  come  then,  and  I  hope  you'll  be  civil  to  me. 
What  a  snappy  man  you  are!  " 

"  I'm  myself.  Come  if  you  want  to, — not  else. 
I've  got  no  Sunday  manners." 

He  looked  sternly  upon  her,  and  Trevail,  now  at 
the  door,  waited  to  hear  the  girl's  answer. 

"  I  promised  to  come  and  that's  enough,"  she  said. 

The  younger  farmer  went  off  and  his  spirit  raged. 
He  rejoiced  to  think  that  the  strongest  man  in  Zeal 
was  Dunning's  enemy.  But  this  was  a  battle  that  no 
other — not  even  his  Uncle  Abraham — could  fight  for 


58  THE  BEACON 

him.  He  guessed  that  the  time  had  come  to  speak. 
Dunning's  tardy  methods  he  knew  and  felt  no  im- 
mediate concern ;  yet  his  power  he  also  knew,  and, 
thinking  upon  it,  began  to  grow  anxious. 

He  considered  the  things  that  he  had  heard  Lizzie 
say  concerning  the  man,  and  could  recall  none  that 
suggested  admiration.  Indeed  there  was  much  about 
him  that  she  had  frankly  disliked.  He  remembered 
once  in  the  bar  how  she  had  reproved  Dunning  to  his 
face  and  told  him  he  had  too  little  care  for  other  peo- 
ple, too  much  for  himself.  And  he  recollected  the 
master  of  Clannaboro's  answer. 

"  You're  right,"  he  said.  "  I  know  it.  But  wait 
till  I  find  them  that  be  worth  caring  about !  " 

When  Trevail  was  gone  Reynold  Dunning  declared 
that  he  should  expect  Lizzie  soon  after  three  o'clock 
at  his  farm. 

"  You  might  come  and  fetch  me,  I  should  think," 
she  told  him,  but  he  refused. 

"  You  can't  miss  the  way.  Keep  your  eye  on  Trow- 
leigh  church  tower  and  you'll  find  us.  If  you'd  like 
to  ride  a  pony  up  over,  I'll  have  one  ready  for  you ;  if 
not,  we'll  walk." 

"  I  can't  ride." 

"  I  suppose  not.     Then  we'll  travel  afoot." 

He  went  as  far  as  the  door,  omitting  any  parting 
salutation  in  his  usual  abrupt  style.  He  stopped, 
however,  and  came  back  and  looked  her  straight  be- 
tween the  eyes  with  his  steady,  searching  stare. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  coming,"  he  said. 

Then  he  turned  and  was  gone.  But  she  felt  quite 
conscious  of  the  force  behind  his  words.  She  had 
heard  much  of  him  and  his  ways  and  egregious  man- 
ners towards  her  sex,  and  she  knew  that  never  before 
in  his  life  had  he  told  a  woman  he  would  be  glad  to 
see  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BEYOND  the  village  of  South  Tawton  is  a  natural 
fault  or  fissure  in  the  country-side.  Here  are 
things  useful  to  man,  and  for  generations,  dating  back 
to  time  mediaeval,  he  has  gathered  from  this  place  blue 
limestone  for  his  needs.  The  earlier  workings  round 
about  have  passed  back  into  Nature's  hand,  and  at  the 
entrance  to  the  great  quarry,  rented  from  the  manor 
lord  by  Abraham  Mortimore,  lofty,  artificial  slopes 
arise,  and  a  deep  tarn  spreads  amid  them.  The  little 
hills  and  the  great  pit  are  alike  human  work,  but  now 
larch  and  oak  clothe  the  one  and  water  fills  the  other. 

On  an  autumn  day  the  hollow  beneath  these  well- 
fledged  elevations  was  shining  like  a  cat's-eye  stone 
set  in  rich  borders  of  emerald  and  jade.  The  season 
had  set  a  flame  along  the  fringes  of  the  pond,  and  to 
its  banks  came  the  first  fret  of  clematis  seed  and  the 
jewels  of  wild  fruit.  Haws  shone  crimson  on  the 
thorn,  and  the  scarlet  heps  of  the  dog-rose  hung  where 
pale  flowers  had  blushed  beside  the  dark  pool  in 
June.  Here  and  there  a  floating  pond  weed  broke  the 
face  of  the  lake ;  and  so  clear  was  the  water  that  the 
plants  might  be  seen  flinging  down  their  anchors 
six  feet  through  the  crystal  and  finding  roothold  in 
the  stones  below.  Dragon  flies  glittered  with  green 
and  topaz  fire  upon  the  weeds  at  the  brink  and  hawked 
overhead  with  crisp  rustle  of  flashing  gauzes ;  a  moor- 
hen clucked  danger  to  her  chicks,  and  the  tiny  black 
creatures  seemed  to  run  along  the  face  of  the  water  to 
safety  in  their  mother's  secluded  haunt.  The  pond 
was  very  deep  and,  beneath  the  sky  picture  painted  on 
its  bosom,  displayed  that  gloom  proper  to  a  great 
density  of  water  crowded  between  narrow  walls  of 

59 


60  THE  BEACON 

earth.  Round  the  margins,  where  they  sloped  to  shal- 
lows at  one  side,  ascended  jungles  of  rosy  willow 
herb  and  rush,  and  the  flesh-coloured  blossoms  of 
hemp  agrimony.  Elsewhere  shone  the  starry  gold  of 
fleabanes,  and  spikes  of  green  mare's  tail  also  ascended 
from  the  water.  But  southerly  the  wooded  banks  rose 
sheer  from  the  deep,  and  here  dark  limestone  ribs  thrust 
through  the  foliage  to  support  overhanging  branches  of 
ilex  and  oak,  hazel  and  many  a  great  ivy  tod  whose 
grey  roots  twined  like  snakes  among  the  low  crags  of 
the  cliffs. 

A  glitter  of  sudden  sliver  broke  the  polished  sur- 
face of  the  pool  and  frosted  it;  a  vole  splashed  in  and 
set  great  circles  widening  out  under  the  bank ;  a  swal- 
low fell  to  water-face,  touched  it  with  her  purple 
feathers  and  was  gone  again.  These  tremors  of  wing 
and  breeze  passed  by,  and  the  tarn  once  more  spread 
clear  for  inverted  reflections  of  her  banks  and  the 
broken  blue  above. 

Mystery  brooded  upon  the  face  of  this  hollow  and 
an  air  sinistrous  filled  its  cup  in  dark  hours  before 
storm,  or  at  the  approach  of  night.  The  atmosphere 
that  haunts  abandoned  undertakings  of  men  homed 
here;  humanity  felt  it  according  to  the  measure  of 
the  mind ;  children,  with  imagination  still  untarnished, 
fearfully  loved  the  place,  sought  perils  about  it,  and 
wove  around  it  the  highest  terrors  that  their  infant 
brains  could  summon. 

A  rude  punt  was  moored  to  the  bank  and  now  there 
came  to  it  a  man.  He  carried  a  hazel  rod  and  a  can, 
and  he  unmoored  the  boat,  pushed  off  into  the  water 
and  anchored  with  a  stone  and  a  coil  of  rope  at  the 
distance  of  twenty  yards  from  the  shore.  He  scat- 
tered ground  bait  to  attract  the  coarse  fish  that  pros- 
pered here ;  then,  having  waited  a  while,  he  cast  out 
a  line  and  began  to  fish. 

The  angler  was  some  sixty  years  of  age,  and  pre- 
sented a  tough  and  sturdy  mien.     His  clothes  were 


THE  BEACON  61 

patched  but  not  ragged ;  he  wore  no  hat  upon  his 
thick  and  short  grey  hair;  round,  immensely  power- 
ful shoulders  supported  a  neck  too  short  but  very 
strong.  He  was  undersized  and  muscle-bound.  The 
face  was  leonine  as  to  the  jowl,  but  an  aquiline  nose 
and  eyes  confused  the  type  and  left  an  observer 
conscious  of  mingled  attributes,  of  courage  mixed  with 
cunning,  of  physical  strength  and  mental  craft  un- 
usually combined.  His  short  grey  beard  covered  the 
man's  chin  and  round  chin  and  came  up  high  on  his 
cheek-bones;  his  nose  was  heavy  and  dropped  a  little 
over  his  shaven  upper  lip.  The  under  lip  protruded. 
His  eyes  were  small  and  the  palest  blue — a  colour  so 
faint  that  the  black  pupils  almost  killed  it.  The  frontal 
bones  were  thrust  forward  in  bold  Simian  ridges  above 
the  eyes,  and  flat  black  eyebrows  surmounted  them. 
His  skull  was  broad  above  the  ears,  but  the  forehead 
wTas  very  receding,  and  the  cranium  appeared  to  be  flat- 
tened under  its  close,  upstanding  thatch  of  grey.  This 
man  had  kinship  with  elemental  things  and  stood  out 
from  his  kind  somewhat  sharply  by  reason  of  his  na- 
ture. A  student  had  pronounced  him  as  one  belated 
in  the  advance  of  evolution.  He  was  primitive;  he 
bridged  a  gulf  between  past  and  present.  His  vigour, 
strength,  ferocity  and  singleness  of  purpose  were  pre- 
historic. He  was  more  than  an  atavist,  for  his  endow- 
ment stretched  through  a  vast  unchronicled  ancestry, 
and  seemed  to  stand  as  a  link  between  the  neolith  and 
the  present-day  natives  of  the  Moor.  He  approached 
nearer  to  early  than  to  late  man ;  he  scorned  his  fellows 
and  lived  the  most  detached  life  possible  for  a  gregar- 
ious creature,  for  he  was  a  herd  hater,  and  everyday 
minds  felt  something  akin  to  a  sense  of  outrage  when 
they  considered  the  existence  of  him.  He  seemed  to 
be  an  anachronism,  a  freak  of  Mother  Nature,  who, 
scorning  the  uplifting  labours  of  countless  centuries, 
had  turned  back,  built  a  man  in  the  old  image  and 
thrust  him  here  among  her  latest  patterns  to  mark  the 


62  THE  BEACON 

contrast.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  such  a 
jest  was  likely  to  make  the  subject  somewhat  misera- 
ble, but  this  had  not  happened.  '  Iron  '  Mortimore  was 
no  more  miserable  than  any  other  pedatory  creature. 
He  had  the  saving  virtues  of  his  nature.  He  trampled 
through  life  like  a  wild  boar,  and  held  himself  a  man 
gifted  above  common  men,  in  that  he  was  superior  to 
their  weaknesses.  He  was  not  honest,  but  had  a  re- 
spect for  law,  because  in  youth  a  term  of  imprisonment 
had  in  forced  the  same.  At  eighteen  he  worked  on  a 
farm  and  was  turned  off  for  wrong-doing.  There- 
upon he  burned  his  master's  ricks  and  went  to  gaol  for 
three  years.  From  that  time  forward  he  had  broken 
no  written  law.  His  sole  interest  in  life  was  the  get- 
ting of  money.  None  knew  his  secrets,  and  he  lived 
absolutely  alone.  His  schemes  were  many  and  he  had 
a  mind  quick  to  over-reach  and  pitiless  in  act.  He 
was  absolutely  unmoral,  and,  at  an  earlier  date  in  the 
world's  history,  might  have  bulked  large  as  a  buc- 
caneer by  sea  or  land.  But  an  environment  con- 
trolled by  modern  conditions  found  him  powerless, 
save  in  the  peddling  possibilities  open  to  a  village 
miser  and  misanthrope.  He  was  ignorant  and  frit- 
tered away  none  of  his  energies  on  thought  or  the  ac- 
quiring of  knowledge.  His  waking  hours  were 
devoted  to  his  ruling  passion.  He  pursued  it  with  im- 
mense energy  and  unsleeping  watchfulness.  He  quar- 
relled with  none  who  left  him  alone,  but  any  collision 
of  interests,  any  opposition  offered  where  his  will  was 
set,  woke  in  him  a  frank  hostility  and  found  him  re- 
morseless, obstinate  and  unforgiving.  Whether  he 
triumphed  or  failed,  his  attitude  to  the  opposing  force 
was  for  ever  afterwards  the  same.  He  never  forgot 
and  he  never  forgave.  Such  a  figure  in  its  dimensions 
bulked  as  large  over  Zeal  as  Cosdon's  self.  Mr.  Morti- 
more made  history  and  furnished  an  unceasing  theme 
for  indignant  comment.  His  force  of  character,  his 
isolation  and  savage  gifts  lifted  him  into  an  unpleasant 


THE  BEACON  63 

eminence  which  he  enjoyed.  Sooner  or  later  he 
clashed  with  most  men  round  about,  for  his  enterprises 
embraced  all  rural  affairs,  and  in  these  exchanges  he 
generally  conquered.  A  battle  extending  over  ten 
years  had  raged  between  him  and  Reynold  Dunning, 
but  so  far  the  elder  could  count  a  dozen  victories  to  one 
defeat. 

Among  Mortimore's  interests  the  largest  was  the 
limestone  quarry.  Its  products  were  in  ceaseless  re- 
quirement, and  the  brown  lime  turned  out  of  his  kilns 
possessed  more  than  common  value  both  to  the  house- 
builder  and  agriculturist.  But  many  other  means  of 
making  money  he  also  practised.  He  owned  houses 
and  land ;  he  ran  sheep  and  cattle  upon  the  Moor ;  the 
least  habitable  building  of  all  that  he  possessed  was  the 
granite  house  in  South  Zeal  where  he  himself  resided, 
and  which  he  had  built  largely  with  his  own  hands. 

And  now  this  archaic  spirit  sat  in  his  home-made 
punt  and  fished  for  his  dinner — after  the  primeval 
fashion.  One  might  have  guessed  that  such  a  man 
would  have  deputed  mean  work  to  mean  hands  and  not 
wasted  time  on  anything  but  magistral  labours;  but 
here  the  neolith  appeared  again,  and  his  cunning  and 
distrust  of  others  came  between  Abraham  Mortimore 
and  any  large  achievement.  He  permitted  none  to  fish 
in  his  pond  for  him,  because  he  knew  that  fish  would 
be  stolen  if  he  did  so.  He  calculated  that  the  discov- 
ery of  these  coarse  fish  had  saved  him  ten  pounds  a 
year  in  food.  He  made  many  meals  off  them,  and 
when  he  discovered  that  a  king-fisher  had  chosen  the 
place  for  a  home,  he  did  not  rest  until  he  had  shot  the 
bird.  He  liked  killing,  but  he  only  killed  to  cat  or  to 
sell.  And  the  things  that  he  was  contented  to  eat  were 
such  as  none  would  buy.  He  fed  largely  on  the 
coarsest.  "  What  don't  fill  fattens,  and  what  don't  fat- 
ten fills,"  was  a  favourite  maxim  of  his. 

He  lived  alone  and  performed  all  his  offices  for 
himself.     His   evening   visit   to   the   Oxenham   Arms 


64  THE  BEACON 

was  the  only  conventional  act  of  his  day,  and  he  went 
there  for  business,  not  pleasure.  By  drinking  in  the 
public  bar  nightly  he  learned  what  was  doing — a  sort 
of  information  none  vouchsafed  to  him  for  choice. 
Few  but  his  nephew  had  ever  been  inside  his  doors, 
and  few  desired  to  go.  He  employed  twenty  men  at 
the  limestone  quarry,  and  had  the  habit  of  watching 
them,  himself  unseen,  from  the  edge  of  the  neigh- 
bouring wood. 

Now  the  man  sat  and  watched  his  float.  He  caught 
his  fish  by  weight  and  knew  to  an  ounce  when  two 
pounds  were  taken.  They  represented  a  meal,  and 
the  length  of  the  sport  depended  on  the  size  of  the 
prey.  In  an  hour  he  had  killed  two  dozen  small  perch 
and  a  half-pound  dace.  These  he  cleaned,  threw  the 
offal  into  the  water,  and  then  rowed  himself  ashore. 
He  strung  the  fish  up  on  a  rush,  hung  them  to  a  tree 
until  he  returned,  and  then  set  off  for  his  quarry. 

Behind  the  lake,  winding  into  a  larger  fissure  be- 
yond, roads  of  blue  limestone  extended  amid  old  work- 
ings to  the  present  site  of  activity.  Gorse  and  colts- 
foot, bramble  and  thorn  buried  the  mounds  along  the 
way,  and  beside  it  went  a  bustling  stream.  Presently 
this  water  ran  out  upon  a  trestle  bridge,  where  the  land 
fell,  and  so  reached  a  water-wheel  and  set  the  simple 
machinery  of  the  quarry  in  motion.  A  rail  for  trolleys 
spanned  the  way  and  sank  into  the  great  cavity  of  the 
mine.  Upon  it  ran  little  trucks  that  brought  up  the 
stone  from  the  pit  and  carried  it  to  the  carts,  for  road 
metal  and  building,  or  to  the  kilns  for  lime.  A  mighty 
mass  of  masonry,  like  a  fortress,  was  the  double  kiln. 
On  one  side  ivy  climbed ;  above  a  ruined,  battlemented 
wall  extended ;  beneath  gaped  a  hollow,  where  the 
mouths  of  the  kilns  opened.  Here  the  air  was  full  of 
dust  of  lime,  and  great  mounds  of  calcined  stone 
awaited  removal. 

Outside,  the  water-wheel  thudded  and  panted  in- 
termittently.    Now  it  hung  fire  between  the  pulses ; 


THE  BEACON  65 

now  it  galloped  again.  Round  about  the  quarried 
stone  lay  in  heaps.  It  was  of  a  rich,  dark  blue-black,  all 
veined  and  shot  with  glittering  quartz.  Elsewhere 
the  stone  in  the  trolleys,  dragged  by  a  steel  wire, 
climbed  an  ascent  to  the  mouth  of  the  kilns. 

One  only  was  alight,  and  Mortimore  now  ascended 
to  it  and  began  to  talk  with  the  old  man,  '  Lucky  ' 
Madders,  the  kiln-master,  than  whom  no  more  genial 
soul  ever  ministered  in  a  hot  place.  Mr.  Madders  was 
seventy  and  seemed  to  breathe  out  yellow  dust  of  lime. 
His  little  eyes  twinkled  from  encrustations  of  the 
burnt  stone;  his  fringe  of  whiskers,  his  hair  and  cap 
were  all  delicately  coloured  pale  saffron  by  his  work. 
Sometimes  he  coughed  and  spat,  for  the  air  above  the 
kiln  was  foul  and  acrid,  and  the  atmosphere  below  it 
full  of  dust.  The  powder  had  plastered  on  to  his  hot 
skin  and  neck.  Indeed  every  visible  part  of  him  was 
painted,  save  his  lips,  which  came  redly  through,  kept 
clean  by  constant  licking. 

Seen  from  above  the  gaping  crater  of  the  kiln 
opened  in  a  wide  circle  with  steep  brick  sides.  Sul- 
phurous fumes  ascended  from  it,  and  even  in  daylight 
the  mass  below  glimmered  with  red-hot  eyes  through 
the  crackling  stone.  On  such  a  floor  Satan  tramped 
over  the  burning  marl  of  hell.  A  subdued,  sullen 
spluttering  came  from  the  kiln,  and  a  sharp,  sour  smell 
rose  out  of  it.  Slowly  the  stone  crumpled  and  turned 
white,  as  coal  dust  was  flung  thinly  upon  it  and  fur- 
ther layers  from  the  quarry  thrown  in.  For  months 
the  process  of  burning  lime  would  continue,  while 
Lucky  replenished  from  the  top  and  drew  out  the  lime 
from  the  bottom.  Upon  the  fierce  floor  of  the  kiln, 
where  blue  flames  shot  and  danced,  broke  out  little  ex- 
plosions of  the  bursting  marble  as  stone  after  stone 
was  shattered  by  the  terrific  heat  from  beneath. 

Mortimore  went  no  further  into  his  quarry,  but 
stopped  here  and  began  to  quarrel  with  his  old  lime 
burner. 


66  THE  BEACON 

"  Wasting  my  coal  again,"  he  said.  "  Haven't  I 
told  you,  till  I'm  sick  of  it,  that  I  won't  have  you 
fling  in  coal  as  if  it  was  straw?  Where's  the  last  ton? 
Gone,  of  course,  and  what  to  show  for  it?  ': 

"  You'll  not  find  the  man  to  do  better.  I'm  ten 
years  older  than  you  and  I  was  burning  lime  afore 
you  were  born,"  answered  Lucky.  "  Afore  you  was 
born  I  was  at  it,  for  my  father  taught  me  the  ways  of 
it  at  that  tender  age,  and  if  you  think  you  can  find  a 
man  as'll  fetch  more  stuff  out  of  this  kiln  than  what  I 
do,  and  cheaper  too,  then  I  tell  you  that  you  think 
wrong.  And  if  you  was  to  throw  me  into  the  kiln  this 
instant  moment  I'd  still  say  the  same." 

Mr.  Madders  was  one  of  the  very  few  people  who 
did  not  fear  his  master.  He  had  worked  at  the  kiln 
long  before  Mortimore  came  to  rent  the  quarry. 
Drawing  lime  was  the  labour  of  his  life,  and  he  never 
yielded  to  any  man  on  the  subject  of  his  own  business, 
though  modest  enough  in  other  particulars. 

The  other  growled  now  and  looked  a  ferocity  he 
did  not  feel. 

"  I'll  throw  you  in  the  kiln  if  you  talk  like  that  to 
me,"  he  said. 

"  Not  you ;  you  know  my  worth  too  well  for  that. 
And  this  I'll  tell  you,  I'm  getting  mighty  old,  '  Iron  ' 
Mortimore.  I  shan't  draw  much  more  lime  for  you, 
and  instead  of  snarling  at  me  for  a  handful  of  coal- 
dust,  you'll  do  better  to  bethink  you  if  I  didn't  ought 
to  be  pensioned  off,  to  wash  the  dust  out  of  my  hair 
for  ever  and  grow  aged  in  dignity  and  cleanliness,  like 
my  father  afore  me." 

"  Pensions  be  damned !  You'll  get  no  pensions 
from  me — none  of  you.  You've  had  more  wages  than 
you'm  worth  for  twenty  years  from  me  alone.  And 
me  sweating  and  slaving  and  living  on  orts  to  keep 
the  likes  of  you  in  fatness !  What  do  I  get  out  of  the 
quarry  but  trouble?  " 

"  A  lot,"  answered  Lucky.     "  Be  you  the  man  to 


THE  BEACON  67 

farm  this  here  quarry  twenty  year  for  fun?  And, 
be  that  as  it  will,  if  you  don't  pension  me  afore  I'm  ten 
year  older,  'twill  be  a  very  great  crime  and  disgrace. 
Not  that  you'll  care  for  that." 

"  You're  right  there.  I'm  only  feared  of  one  thing 
in  this  world  and  that's  to  quarrel  with  the  law.  I've 
had  enough  of  law.  'Tis  a  master  you  can't  fight. 
Tis  a  headless,  tailless  devil  that  can  lay  you  by  the 
heels,  but  you  can't  hit  back.  But  as  for  men,  the 
man  ban't  born  I  care  a  turnip  for.  A  worthless  flock 
of  trash." 

He  stopped  and  strained  his  ear. 

"  Why  ban't  they  working  in  the  quarry  this  min- 
ute?" 

"  Because  Tawton  church  clock  have  gone  twelve. 
'Tis  only  men  like  me  that  pay  no  heed  to  hours  and 
work  early  and  late  for  their  masters." 

The  miser  looked  at  his  watch  and  prepared  to 
depart. 

"If  there's  any  tomfoolery  in  your  mind  about  a 
pension,  get  it  out,"  he  said.  "  The  thing  won't 
happen  to  any  men  of  mine.  You've  had  the  luck  to 
be  able  to  earn  your  bread  for  sixty  years,  and  if  you 
haven't  put  away  a  nest-egg  in  all  that  time,  the  more 
fool  you.  I'd  sooner  chain  the  gang  of  you  in  the 
bottom  of  the  quarry  and  stop  the  pumps  and  let  the 
water  drown  you  by  inches  than  give  you  pensions. 
God's  light!  Who'll  ever  offer  me  a  pension?  And 
who've  worked  so  hard  as  me  ?  " 

"  Nobody  but  the  devil,"  answered  Mr.  Madders. 
"  But  because  you  like  to  live  on  pigs'  food,  to  save 
farthings,  be  that  any  reason  why  us  Christian  mem- 
bers should  do  it  and  go  without  our  comforts?  If 
you  heard  what  I  heard  about  you,  you'd  have  a  very 
unrest ful  night  sometimes." 

The  other  laughed  at  that. 

"  I'd  be  unrestful  if  people  spoke  good  of  me.  I 
should  judge  something  was  amiss  if  they  got  bleating 


68  THE  BEACON 

praise  of  me.  I  want  their  fear  and  their  blame. 
Blast  'em — what  are  they  but  a  lot  of  rotten  cattle 
with  foot-and-mouth  disease?  If  they  dared — but 
they  dare  nought.  Too  fond  of  their  own  carcasses 
and  their  own  comforts  for  that !  '  Comforts ! '  You 
talk  of  comforts.  'Tis  only  cowards  and  women  and 
kennel-kept  cur-dogs  that  want  comforts.  The  battle 
don't  go  to  the  comfortable  or  the  race  to  the  cool. 
Let  them  that  call  themselves  men  sweat  for  it  and 
fight  for  it  and  starve  for  it,  and  go  bloody-fingered 
and  ragged  for  it!  'Tis  the  likes  of  them  that  get 
things,  not  your  slaves — gelded,  comfortable  trash, 
only  fit  to  break  stones  and  run  errands." 

He  went  off,  and  Lucky,  very  familiar  with  these 
explosions,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  joined  half  a 
dozen  men  sitting  within  earshot  behind  the  wall  of 
the  wheel  house. 

He  opened  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  and  took  his 
dinner  from  it — some  cold  meat  and  potatoes  in  a 
pie-dish. 

"  Have  he  gone  ?  "  asked  a  thin  man  with  one  droop- 
ing eyelid  and  a  long,  anxious  face. 

"  Yes,  he's  gone.  I'm  the  safety-valve  as  usual. 
'Tis  I  get  all  the  blow-off  of  him,  because,  though  I  be 
the  oldest  among  ye,  I'm  the  valiantest  and  ban't 
afeared  of  his  noises  and  gnashings." 

"  You've  got  the  weight  of  seventy  years  behind 
you,"  said  the  thin  man.  "  For  my  part  I  tremble 
like  a  leaf  afore  him  and  always  shall  do.  There's 
fierce  beasts  in  the  world  and  there's  timid  beasts; 
but  the  timid  beasts  be  a  damned  sight  use  fuller  than 
the  fierce  ones  when  all's  said." 

"  You'm  sheep  to  his  wolf — all  but  me,"  declared 
Lucky  Madders. 

"  What  I  say  is  this,"  replied  an  elderly,  black- 
bearded  man  who  had  finished  his  food.  '  What  I 
say,  and  what  I  pray  in  my  prayers  and  ban't  ashamed 
to  own  to,  be  this,  that  '  Iron '  Mortimore  won't  get 


THE   BEACON  69 

the  lease  when  the  time  comes  for  renewing  of  it. 
The  new  landlord  don't  like  him  and  'tis  odds  but  he'll 
be  flinged  out.     Then  we  shall  all  breathe  again." 

"  Not  us,"  answered  another  middle-aged  worker. 
"  Tenants  may  come  and  go,  but  they'm  all  the  same 
from  our  point  of  view.  We're  only  machinery,  like 
this  here  wheel;  but  when  we  rot,  we  can't  be  mended 
like  it  can,  and  so  we  get  cast  out." 

Meantime  the  master  had  returned  to  his  fish  and 
carried  them  home.  Arrived,  he  broke  up  a  banked 
fire,  put  on  a  frying-pan,  cooked  his  meal  and  ate  it 
quickly  with  some  bread  and  dripping.  He  flung 
the  bones  to  a  large  black-and-white  cat  that  waited 
for  them  in  the  yard,  and  then  went  out  again  into 
the  village. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ELISABETH'S  leisure  vanished  under  the  new 
rule,  and  she  could  claim  no  more  time  than  that 
prescribed  by  custom.  She  had  her  afternoon  out  and 
was  free  also  for  some  hours  during  Sunday.  A 
spirit  of  bustle  and  business  spread  over  the  Oxenham 
Arms,  and  some  considered  it  an  improvement,  while 
others  mourned  the  old,  easy  haphazard  style  and 
declared  that  peace  and  comfort  were  things  of  the 
past  under  Minnie's  reign.  All  sane  folks  liked  the 
new  mistress,  however,  for  she  was  strong.  She  set 
her  own  fashion  and  did  as  much  work  herself  as  she 
demanded  from  others. 

Underhill,  however,  smarted  at  the  new  calls  upon 
his  purse.  Business  remained  much  the  same,  but 
the  need  for  money  increased.  Minnie  belonged  to 
the  order  of  Martha.  She  could  not  live  happily  in  a 
house  with  a  broken  window  or  a  room  with  a  treach- 
erous chair.  She  had  a  marvellous  eye  for  weak 
spots,  dry  rot,  wet  rot,  damp  and  disorder.  She 
turned  her  new  home  inside  out  before  she  had  been 
in  it  a  month,  and  Tom  Underhill  experienced  much 
discomfort,  but  he  was  loyal  and  said  no  word  except 
in  private  to  her.  Soon  he  learned  that  opposition 
was  useless  and  accepted  the  changes  in  a  silent  spirit. 
He  paid  a  visit  to  his  mother,  who  dwelt  at  Chag- 
ford,  and  after  that  event  Minnie  was  very  glad  to 
find  her  husband  in  a  more  reasonable  mind,  as  a 
result  of  maternal  counsel.  She  loved  Tom  well,  but 
so  convinced  was  she  that  her  way  was  the  right  one 
and  her  husband's  the  wrong,  that  she  would  bate 
nothing  and  make  no  concessions.     Her  pain  was  real, 

70 


THE  BEACON  71 

but  she  looked  forward  and  felt  very  sure  that  a  time 
would  come  when  her  husband  must  turn  round  and 
call  her  blessed.  She  predicted  an  increased  pros- 
perity ;  she  fired  the  man  to  new  ambitions ;  she  even 
deprecated  his  pleasures  and  sought  to  change  them. 
He  was  weak  and  endured  all  this. 

To  Lizzie  Densham  the  spectacle  of  such  a  married 
pair  presented  problems  of  very  absorbing  interest. 
Heart  and  soul  she  sympathised  with  the  young  wife 
and  told  herself  that  even  thus  would  she  labour  with 
love,  to  lift  a  man  above  his  own  ideals,  and  make  him 
better  and  wiser  by  her  sleepless  care  on  his  behalf, 
but  like  all  lookers-on  she  saw  both  sides  of  the 
game,  and  she  could  not  fail  to  mark  the  troubles  of 
the  man.  He  hid  them  from  many  eyes,  but  not  from 
hers.  Once  or  twice,  when  his  wife  was  at  market 
and  the  bar  chanced  to  be  empty,  Tom  had  come  there 
to  chat  with  her  and  lift  unconsciously  a  corner  of 
the  curtain  that  hid  his  mind.  The  ready  sympathy 
and  understanding  of  the  young  woman  attracted  him. 
Moreover,  he  knew  that  Lizzie  and  her  mistress  were 
the  best  of  friends,  and  that  Minnie  often  cited  the 
barmaid  as  a  type  of  what  a  woman  worker  ought 
to  be.  He  felt  it  no  crime,  therefore,  to  talk  to  the 
girl,  and  even  confide  at  a  point  or  two.  And  Lizzie, 
very  quick  to  appreciate  this  attitude,  felt  a  great 
emotion  of  friendship  for  the  plump  and  harassed 
giant.  Presently  her  conviction  that  his  wife  could 
do  no  wrong  was  a  little  shaken,  and  with  further 
lapse  of  time  she  came  to  hold  the  balance  pretty 
evenly  between  them.  She  learned  no  little  from 
each,  and  told  herself  that  when  her  time  came  she 
would  preserve  a  golden  mean  in  marriage,  and  strive 
to  practise  a  fine  reciprocity.  She  compared  Tom 
Underbill  with  Charles  Trevail  to  the  advantage  of 
the  latter.  She  assured  herself  that  the  young  farmer 
had  a  larger  intellect  and  larger  ideas  than  the  publi- 
can.    She  doubted  not  that  it  would  be  easy  to  help 


72  THE  BEACON 

him  without  the  painful  self-assertion  that  Minnie 
Burgoyne  had  brought  into  married  life. 

Then  came  the  visit  to  Clannaboro'  and  some  speech 
with  a  different  spirit  in  the  shape  of  Reynold  Dun- 
ning. 

His  farm  was  a  long,  low  building,  two  hundred 
years  old.  Its  chimneys  were  granite  and  brick  rose 
out  of  a  deep,  silver-brown  thatch  mottled  with  moss. 
A  few  elms  sprang  beside  it,  and  in  the  garden  that 
opened  before  the  front,  was  a  single  great  fir,  with  a 
flat  head.  A  lauristinus  and  a  rhododendron  grew 
beside  the  door,  and  over  the  white-faced  face  of 
the  homestead  a  mighty  cydonia  flourished  and  spat- 
tered half  the  house  front  with  crimson  in  the  spring 
time.  The  porch  was  deep  and  the  door  massive. 
The  rooms  were  low  but  large,  and  there  were  many 
of  them  unoccupied.  Byres  and  cattle  houses  of  mod- 
ern build,  mostly  roofed  with  iron,  clustered  a  little 
apart  from  the  dwelling,  while  before  it  spread  a 
wedge-shaped  expanse  of  turf,  whereon  was  a  wooden 
seat  or  two.  At  the  end  of  the  garden  a  rill  from 
the  adjacent  moor  fed  a  fern-fringed  pond.  Behind 
Clannaboro'  towered  the  Beacon,  and  before  it  the 
hill  sank  into  a  bottom  of  forest  that  rose  again  to 
green  fields  beyond.  Then  ascended  a  further  slope, 
whose  wooded  ridges  were  surmounted  by  the  church 
tower  of  Throwleigh. 

Reynold  Dunning  was  smoking  in  his  garden  when 
his  visitor  arrived. 

"  You're  welcome,"  he  said.  "  I've  planned  to  go 
for  a  walk  along  with  you  and  show  you  Raybarrow 
Pool,  which  you  wanted  to  see.  Then  we'll  come 
back  to  tea." 

He  turned  to  an  old  woman  who  came  out  of  the 
farm. 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Vallance,  my  housekeeper.  By  the 
look  of  that  thing  on  her  head  she  is  going  to  after- 
noon church  at  Throwleigh." 


THE  BEACON  73 

A  little  desiccated  woman  with  a  very  brown  face 
greeted  the  visitor.  She  wore  her  black  Sunday  gown 
and  a  bonnet  with  red  flowers  in  it. 

"  You'll  be  Miss  Densham  from  the  inn,  I  suppose? 
Wonders  never  cease.  'Twas  not  heard  that  this  here 
man  ever  went  walking  with  a  maiden  afore.  You 
can  snort,  Dunning,  but  well  you  know  that  such  a 
thing  hasn't  happened  to  you  till  now." 

"  See  you're  back  to  boil  the  kettle,  and  mind  your 
own  business  till  then,"  retorted  the  other ;  but  Mercy 
Vallance  was  not  concerned  at  his  harsh  tongue.  She 
had  seen  him  grow  from  childhood  and  loved  him. 

"  You  teach  the  master  manners  and  cut  his  claws 
if  you  know  how,"  she  said  to  Lizzie,  "and  then  I'll 
reckon  you're  the  cleverest  girl  that  ever  came  to 
Dartymoor." 

"  You're  fortunate  to  have  such  a  nice  old  lady  to 
keep  house  for  you,"  declared  the  girl  when  Mrs. 
Vallance  was  out  of  earshot. 

But  Dunning,  though  he  knew  it,  made  no  con- 
cession. 

"  A  jolly  good  billet  for  her  and  her  husband  too. 
They  don't  know  their  luck.     Be  you  ready  to  start?  ': 

"  No,  I'm  not.  I  want  to  rest  a  bit.  I'll  sit  here 
in  the  garden.     What  a  pretty  old  house  to  be  sure ! ': 

"  A  lonely  place  for  one  man." 

"  You're  not  the  sort  to  be  lonely — too  busy  for 
that." 

"  The  busiest  be  lonely — off  and  on.  You  can't  be 
doing  figures  and  planning  how  to  get  the  best  out  of 
life  all  the  time.  There's  the  nights — the  long  nights, 
when  you  lie  awake  and  know  that  for  all  you've  got, 
you've  missed  what's  best." 

She  stared  at  this  streak  of  sentiment — flashing  like 
a  gracious  beam  of  light  from  the  usual  dark  welter 
of  his  mind.  He  saw  her  surprise  and  sneered  at 
himself. 

"  Well  you  may  look  astonished !     That's  the  sort 


74  THE  BEACON 

of  stuff  Charlie  Trevail  bleats,  I  expect.  But  d'you 
like  it?  I  doubt  you  do.  I've  seen  you  a  score  of 
times  now  and  heard  you  talk  to  all  sorts,  and  I 
should  say  you  was  a  pretty  strong  fashion  of  woman 
and  hadn't  much  use   for  drivel." 

"  What  do  you  call  drivel  ?  " 

"If  you're  rested  we'll  start  and  then  I'll  tell  you. 
There's  a  queer  thing  about  me,  I  can't  talk  standing 
still,  or  sitting  still.  I  want  for  my  legs,  or  a  horse's 
legs,  to  be  moving  under  me  afore  I  can  talk." 

"  I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute.  D'you  know  I've  put 
on  three  pounds  weight  since  I  came  from  London?  " 

"  A  good  thing  too.  You  won't  be  one  of  them 
tubby  women.     You  can  afford  to  fatten  up  a  bit." 

They  started  presently,  and  as  he  led  her  by  a  path 
to  the  Moor  he  took  up  her  question. 

"  I  call  love-making  drivel,  so  far  as  I  can  see  it. 
'Tisn't  real — 'tisn't  the  true  thing — only  playing  at  it. 
Love  don't  twitter.  It  eats  you  alive.  All  the  small 
talk  of  the  bar  be  drivel.  It  frets  me  sometimes  to 
hear  you  answering  back  the  fools  so  quick  and  pert. 
Clever,  no  doubt,  and  smart  and  all  that.  But  I  hate 
it.  There's  no  dignity  to  it.  Yet,  when  you  get 
back  on  this  fool  or  that,  I  see  Charlie  grin  all  over 
his  face,  as  if  he  was  proud  of  you.  But  I  ban't 
proud  of  you.     I  despise  you  for  it." 

Her  colour  rose. 

"  What  do  you  come  to  the  Oxenham  Arms  for 
then?  Nobody  wants  you.  You  never  add  any 
pleasure  to  the  place,  or  bring  a  laugh  into  the  bar. 
And  if  you  despise  me,  I'd  like  to  know  why  I'm 
walking  with  you  now?  I've  got  to  earn  my  living, 
and  I'm  earning  it  honest,  and  a  barmaid  isn't  paid 
for  keeping  her  mouth  shut  and  looking  like  a  death's 
head  behind  the  counter.  She's  got  to  be  cheerful 
and  ready,  and  she's  got  to  know  how  to  please  the 
fools,  because  nine  out  of  every  ten  men  who  come  to 
hotel  bars  are  fools." 


THE  BEACON  75 

"  Why  are  you  a  barmaid  then  ?  " 

1  Why  are  you  a  farmer  ?  You  told  that  old 
woman  to  mind  her  own  business  just  now.  And  I 
tell  you  the  same." 

"  That's  right,"  he  said.  "  Now  we're  on  bed- 
rock, and  that's  where  I  like  to  be  when  I'm  talking  to 
man  or  woman.  You  tell  me  my  faults  and  see  if  you 
can  tell  me  one  I  don't  know  about ;  and  I'll  tell  you 
yours." 

"  A  cheerful  subject  for  a  Sunday  afternoon." 

"  Not  cheerful — cheerful  things  be  all  wind  in  the 
trees.  Let's  be  real  and  see  how  we  like  it.  Your 
great  fault  is  that  you're  a  long  way  too  impatient. 
You  want  things  to  happen  all  in  a  minute.  You 
rush  at  your  work.  Does  a  week  go  without  you've 
broke  a  tumbler  or  two?  You  wash  up  carelessly, 
and  then  you  look  at  the  broken  glass  as  if  'twas 
its  fault  and  not  yours  that  it  scats  abroad.  You 
want  everything  to  be  dead  right,  and  you  want 
to  have  your  own  way  all  the  time.  And  you 
don't  think  none  the  better  of  them  that  thwart 
you." 

"Well!  I'm  hearing  things!" 

"  Deny  it,"  he  said. 

She  considered. 

"  I'm  impatient,  yes." 

"  And  you  want  to  lead.  You  wouldn't  be  led. 
That's  why  you  let  Trevail  take  you  out  so  often. 
You  can  trundle  him  this  way  and  that,  like  a  child 
trundles  a  hoop.  You  can  trundle  him  to  the  top  of 
Cosdon,  though  he  hates  the  place.  Dartmoor's  too 
plain-spoken  for  him.  Does  he  satisfy  you?  Be- 
cause if  he  does,  you're  a  doomed  thing." 

"  You're  a  cleverer  man  than  I  thought,"  she  an- 
swered irrelevantly. 

"  Not  clever — only  cunning.  I've  seen  a  lot  of 
women,  chiefly  the  humble  and  meek  sort,  that  go 
down  on  their  knees  when  they  see  you  coming  and 


76  THE  BEACON 

ask  you  for  the  love  of  goodness  and  human  kindness 
to  pick  'em  up  and  kiss  'em.     Hateful  toads ! ': 

"  I  didn't  know  there  were  any  such  women  left." 

"  Here  and  there.  But  you're  different.  I  hope 
you'd  never  do  anything  like  that.  Pity's  a  vile 
thing." 

Her  eyes  flashed. 

"  I  was  very  well  educated  and  I've  read  a  great 
many  books.  And  I've  learned  that  you've  got  to  live 
your  life  to  yourself.  I  wouldn't  sink  myself  to  be 
any  man's  squaw.  And  as  to  pity — what  decent- 
spirited  woman  will  stand  that  from  anybody?'1 

"  All  the  same,  your  tame  women  have  a  better 
time  than  the  fighting  sort." 

"  What  does  a  wife  want  to  fight  for?  " 

"Ask  'em!  They'll  tell  you.  There's  not  a  wife 
ever  I  knowed  wasn't  called  to  fight  sooner  or  later. 
That  is  if  they  happen  to  be  married  to  a  man.  And, 
same  way,  if  a  man  marries  a  woman  and  not  a  piece 
of  putty,  the  sparks  must  fly  sometimes.  If  I  mar- 
ried a  woman — " 

"You!" 

"  Yes,  me.     Be  that  a  thing  unthinkable  ?  " 
I  should  never  have  thought  you'd  feel  to  want 


one." 


"I  said  'it.'  If  I  did,  she'd  learn  what  'will' 
means ;  and  I'd  expect  to  see  her  flash  back — and  hit 
back  if  need  be." 

"  A  pretty  unquiet  sort  of  life." 

"  Yes — there's  only  one  thing  I  hate  like  hell,  and 
that's  tameness.  Me  and  '  Iron  '  Mortimore  are  the 
same  there.  If  we  weren't  life-long  enemies  we'd  be 
close  friends.  We've  brought  a  bit  of  salt  into  each 
other's  lives  and  shall  bring  a  good  bit  more  yet.  I 
see  that.  I've  got  youth  on  my  side.  But  he's 
worth  fighting — I  will  say  that  for  him.  The  fur  flies 
when  we  meet." 


THE  BEACON  77 

She  did  not  answer  and  he  returned  to  the  starting 
point. 

"  Us  was  talking  of  you.  Well,  I  guess  you'd  have 
no  use  for  a  strong  man,  because  you're  shaping  for  a 
strong  woman  yourself.  Come  a  few  more  years  and 
you'll  get  crusted  over  and  baked  hard  by  the  fire  of 
life — then,  from  my  point  of  view,  you'll  be  over- 
cooked and  spoiled.  But  perhaps  you'd  be  happier 
so  yourself;  'twould  be  pleasanter  work  to  reign  over 
a  weak  man  than  be  reigned  over  by  a  strong  one." 

She  laughed  at  that. 

"  You  seem  to  reckon  there's  no  such  thing  as  fair 
give  and  take  in  marriage  then — that  'tis  all  ruling  or 
being  ruled?  " 

"  I  don't  know  nothing  about  it  and  maybe  never 
shall ;  I  only  speak  what  I  see  around  me.  Wedlock ! 
Damn  the  word!  It  sounds  to  me  like  a  rat-trap 
going  off.  You  expect  to  hear  something  shriek  the 
minute  you've  used  it.     And  oftentimes  you  do." 

"You've  thought  a  lot  upon  it  seemingly?  ' 

"  Yes.  I've  watched  it  in  life  and  you've  read  about 
it  in  story  books.  And  so  we've  come  to  have  a  dif- 
ferent view." 

"Did  you  ever  care  for  a  woman?"  she  asked; 
"  not  that  you  need  answer  if  'tis  too  close  a  ques- 
tion." 

He  replied  indirectly. 

"  I  shouldn't  answer  if  I  didn't  please.  Perhaps  I 
can't  ezacally  say.  But  this  I'll  say,  I'm  a  man  that 
could  rise  to  a  pretty  good  heigh f  oi  love,  but  not 
single-handed.  I'd  want  the  woman  to  help.  I 
couldn't  worship  a  woman,  no  matter  what  she  was, 
if  she  hadn't  nothing  to  give  in  exchange.  I'd  never 
pour  out  my  best  for  a  woman  if  she'd  got  nothing 
to  give  back  and  no  use  for  my  gifts.  I'd  give  all  I've 
got — all — all,  but  I'd  want  all  she've  got  for  it.  And 
less  than  all  wouldn't  content  me,  and  half  an  eye  for 


78  THE  BEACON 

any  man  but  me,  after  she'd  once  come  to  me,  would 
mean  they  nasty  things  we  read  in  the  papers." 

"  Some  women  have  got  so  little  to  give,"  said  Liz- 
zie. 

"  Right !  You've  found  that  out  ?  And  some  have 
got  less  than  a  little.  Still,  we  can't  demand  more 
than  all,  and  the  sort  of  woman  that  I'd  be  like  to  care 
about  would  be  enough  for  any  sane  man." 

"  More  than  enough  may  be  ?  " 

"  Not  for  me.  She  might  swamp  a  smaller  pattern 
of  man,  but  not  me.  There  are  them  about,  for  in- 
stance, that  your  love  would  be  a  good  few  sizes  too 
large  for.  But  not  for  me.  I've  got  more  to  give 
than  any  woman  born  could  give  again." 

From  a  strange  expression  of  active  interest  her  face 
broke  into  laughter  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"  You're  on  pretty  good  terms  with  your  powers,  to 
be  sure! "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  am.  And  I've  the  right  to  be,  because  I've 
not  squandered  them." 

"  You're  heart-whole  still?  " 

He  did  not  answer  this.    . 

"  Take  a  halt  here,"  he  said.  "  That's  Blackavon 
Brook.  Many  a  good  trout  I've  catched  in  it.  It 
flows  from  the  east  of  Raybarrow  Pool  to  Blackavon 
Hole.  'Tis  a  nice  lonely  place  with  a  good  holt  here 
and  there  for  a  man  to  hide  and  think." 

"You  come  here?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,  when  I've  got  a  spare  hour  sometimes 
and  a  weight  on  my  thoughts." 

"  You  don't  take  your  troubles  to  other  people  ?  ' 

"  You  know  I  don't.  That's  a  fool's  trick  most 
times.  Fifty  to  one  when  you  get  good  advice  it 
jumps  contrary  to  your  own  will,  so  you  don't  take  it. 
'Tis  a  confession  of  weakness  to  want  it  anyway." 

"  You'd  never  let  no  woman  really  share  your  life 
then  for  all  you  say  she  would  ?  " 

"What's  that  to  do  with  it?" 


THE  BEACON  79 

"  Everything  to  the  likes  of  me.  If  a  man  took 
me  and  kept  me  outside  of  things,  I'd  not  stop  with 
him.  If  I  found  that  I  was  no  more  than — but  there, 
'tis  all  nonsense  this  talk." 

"  So  it  is,"  he  answered.  "  You  girls  with  your 
'  ifs  '  amuse  me.  So  easy  to  be  wise  afore  you  fall  in 
love  and  so  difficult  to  be  afterwards — till  you  fall  out 
again.  When  you  love  a  man  there's  no  mo;e  '  ifs  ' 
in  the  case.  Everything  goes  by  the  board  then — 
and  ought  to.  Why,  'tis  the  test  of  the  size  of  love — 
the  giving  up  every  other  damn  thing  and  casting  the 
rest  of  life  to  the  wind  for  a  man.  I  hate  the  mean, 
measuring  sort  of  love  in  most  of  you.  'Tis  supposed 
to  rise  to  its  full  height  in  marriage.  That's  the  goal. 
Marriage!  as  if  anything  wrecked  and  choked  and 
strangled  love  like  marriage  does.  Whoever  loved 
truer  for  that?  Whoever  loved  longer  for  that? 
Love  dies,  like  every  other  mortal  thing,  and  marriage 
be  only  an  unclean  way  of  keeping  the  stinking  corpse 
above  ground  so  often  as  not.  But,  if  I  had  my  way, 
I'd  say  to  the  men  and  women,  '  when  love's  dead, 
bury  it  and  part  and  don't  let  the  poison  of  a  festering 
thing  make  your  lives  foul.'  " 

"  That's  all  right,"  answered  she.  "  I  understand 
that.  A  very  fine  idea,  but  it  won't  get  you  a  wife. 
Only  I  don't  suppose  you  want  one.  You  go  to  a  girl 
and  say,  '  I  love  you,  but  when  we're  tired  of  one 
another  we'll  part.'  Well,  how  many  would  think 
that  good  enough  ?  ': 

"  None — just  because  they  don't  think  at  all  and 
were  never  taught  to  do  so.  But  I'll  say  to  all  women, 
*  Don't  let  love  fool  you.'  " 

"  You're  like  to  go  a  bachelor  then." 

"  Wrong  again.  I'm  the  pattern  of  man  that  can 
marry,  because  I  don't  change.  If  all  was  like  me, 
marriage  would  do  very  well  and  breed  no  misery. 
Once  such  a  man  as  I  am  loves  he  don't  change,  and  I 
shan't  change  where  I  love.     But  I'm  only  telling  you 


80  THE  BEACON 

that  a  smaller  pattern  of  man  than  me  can  change,  and 
does." 

"  And  I  don't  change  neither,"  she  said.  "  If  I 
was  to  love  a  man,  there'd  be  no  changing — not  if  he 
didn't  change." 

"  There  you  are — another  '  if.'  You  wait ;  you  keep 
off  saying  what  you  would  be  and  what  you  wouldn't 
be  till  life  shows  you  what  you  can  be.  We  all  build 
very  fine  pictures  of  what  we  hope  to  rise  to — till  the 
time  comes.  I  know  myself,  because  I've  been  a 
lonely  man  and  had  plenty  of  time  to  study  the  mud 
I'm  built  of;  but  you  don't  know  yourself,  because  no 
woman  ever  does,  and  no  woman  ever  yet  guessed  how 
high  or  how  low  she  could  go  till  the  hour  come  and 
astonished  her." 

"  You've  thought  in  your  time,"  she  said. 

"  And  you've  read,  and  I'll  back  thinking  against 
reading,  so  long  as  you  don't  fool  yourself  and  keep 
your  mind  from  making  fancy  pictures  of  things. 
What  you  want  in  a  man  is  this :  you  want  a  fair, 
average,  well-looking,  well-to-do  man  who'll  rip  open 
his  heart  for  you  and  let  you  go  in.  And  there  you'll 
bide  and  take  the  place  of  his  heart.  You'll  not  be 
hungry  for  outside  credit  so  long  as  he  gives  it  to  you ; 
you'll  care  little  about  praise  so  long  as  you  have  his; 
you'll  be  well  content  for  the  world  to  say  he's  a 
clever  one,  so  long  as  he  never  tires  of  telling  you  that 
'tis  all  your  work.  So  you'll  be  likely  to  fix  on  a 
weakish  man,  and  he'll  be  lucky;  but  you  won't. 
You'll  lift  such  a  man  up,  I  daresay;  but  think  of  the 
sort  of  man  who  can  lean  on  a  woman.  You'll  do  a 
bit  for  him,  I  grant,  but  what  will  he  do  for  you? 
And  what  will  be  the  end  of  it?  Why,  you'll  come 
to  despise  him,  and  he'll  get  wind  of  it  that  you  do, 
and  then  he'll  grow  restive,  and — " 

"  Not  if  we  loved  proper.  I  want  to  do  my  share 
in  any  home  that  ever  comes  to  me.  I've  had  to  work 
for  myself  all  my  life,  and  I  shouldn't  care  to  sit  down 


THE  BEACON  81 

and  let  somebody  else  work  for  me.  Can't  there  be 
fair  give  and  take?  Can't  the  man  do  his  work  and 
the  woman  do  hers?  " 

"  Yes,  but  not  often.  Few  be  built  so  steady  and 
even  of  temper  as  to  mind  their  own  business  and  let 
t'other  partner  do  the  same.  You  ban't  for  one. 
You'd  want  a  finger  in  every  pie.  You'd  have  advice 
ready  for  every  happening  and  opinions  for  every  day 
of  the  week — Sundays  included.  You're  a  very  fine 
character — the  sort  that's  nearly  always  squandered 
on  a  poor  make  of  man.  And  you'd  rule  from  the 
outset,  and  your  sweetness  would  be  lost,  and  your 
strength  would  increase,  and  you'd  end  by  being  a 
shrew — tied  to  a  sly  husband.  I've  seen  it;  and  if  you 
open  your  eyes  wide  enough  you'll  see  it — at  the  Oxen- 
ham  Arms  afore  a  year  be  gone.  That's  going  to  be 
an  extreme  case,  I  grant  you.  Let  the  strong  go  to 
the  strong,  and  let  the  weak  strangle  the  weak ;  let  the 
dead  bury  their  dead  and  drop  into  the  grave  after 
em. 

"  Shouldn't  a  woman  want  to  bring  something  to 
her  marriage  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You're  a  long  way  be- 
hind the  times  if  you  think  women  are  contented  to  be 
nought  but  wives  nowadays.  More  and  more  are 
coming  to  despise  the  state." 

"  Glad  of  it.  The  more  the  better.  They'm 
screaming  to  be  man's  equal,  I'm  told — some  of  'em ; 
and  the  louder  they  scream,  the  more  it  appears  that 
they  ban't  his  equal  and  never  can  be.  Men  know  you 
don't  get  things  by  screaming  for  'em.  The  women 
taught  him  that  afore  they  weaned  him.  But  they 
can't  lam  it  themselves  seemingly.  Let  they  sort  of 
females  keep  away  from  men — and  they  won't  keep 
further  off  than  men  wants  'em  to.  They'll  die  out  in 
a  generation,  because,  with  all  their  cleverness,  they 
haven't  found  a  way  to  have  a  finger  in  the  next  gen- 
eration single-handed.  There's  a  few  gelded  worms 
called  men  that  creep  about  with  'em  and  be  on  their 


82  THE  BEACON 

side,  I  believe.  But  they'm  all  a  laughing-stock  to- 
gether, and  only  make  passing  work  for  policemen." 

"  That's  your  ignorant  man's  view.  But  I  under- 
stand it  how  you  see  it  all  the  same,"  she  answered. 
"  You've  got  to  live  in  the  country,  like  I'm  doing  now, 
and  as  you've  done  all  your  life,  to  understand  the 
divisions  of  work  and  mark  the  things  men  have  to  do 
that  'twould  be  shameful  to  ask  us  to  do." 

"Yes;  and  if  women  offered  to  do  'em,  we'd  hate 
them  for  it." 

"  'Tis  the  beautiful  plan  of  share  and  share  alike 
that  I'd  wish  to  take  part  in.  I'd  be  unhappy  to  have 
nought  on  hand  but  keep  my  husband's  house  tidy 
and  mend  his  clothes.  Surely  to  God  no  proper  man 
would  care  for  a  wife  that  could  do  no  more  than 
that?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  fierce,  almost  ravenous  ex- 
pression, but  her  face  was  from  him  and  she  did  not 
see  it. 

"  Leave  it,"  he  answered  abruptly.  "  I've  troubled 
you  enough.  I've  not  got  the  wit  to  say  clever,  kind, 
useful  things  to  women — or  men  either.  Do'e  see 
those  birds?  They  mean  that  winter  is  on  the 
way." 

Along  the  brown  hill,  like  a  galaxy  of  stars,  there 
flashed  a  flock  of  plovers  with  the  sunlight  glinting 
under  their  wings  as  they  flew  and  wheeled  together. 

"  You  think  you  begin  to  know  the  Beacon,"  he 
said.  "  You  know  nought  yet.  Summer's  but  a  mask 
for  truth  up  here.  Us'll  see  what  you  think  of  it  come 
the  New  Year.  'Tis  only  a  place  for  cheerful  folk 
just  now;  but  wait." 

"  I'm  waiting.     It  won't  frighten  me." 

He  fell  into  a  silence  then  and  they  walked  some  way 
without  speaking.  At  the  edge  of  the  great  mire 
called  Raybarrow  they  stood  awhile  and  he  told  her 
stories  of  the  Moor — mostly  tragic.  And  yet  with 
all  his  asperity  and  bluntness  she  felt  no  fear  or  dis- 


THE  BEACON  83 

trust  of  him.  He  interested  her.  She  knew  that  he 
was  stronger  than  she.  He  was  a  tonic — salutary 
perhaps  in  small  doses,  suffocating  in  large  ones.  She 
told  herself  that  a  little  of  Reynold  Dunning  would 
go  a  long  way.  But  she  was  glad  to  have  him  for  a 
friend.  He  taught  her  the  charm  of  contrast.  A 
dozen  times  she  set  him,  in  her  mind's  eye,  beside 
Charlie  Trevail  and  felt  the  extremity  of  their  oppo- 
sition. 

She  amused  herself  with  a  few  little  tests.  A  be- 
lated tuft  of  bog  heather  made  a  pearly  pink  jewel  at 
the  edge  of  Raybarrow  Pool.  It  was  separated  from 
the  firm  ground  by  a  tract  of  bog,  but  Lizzie  affected 
not  to  see  this.  Even  such  a  blossom  had  she  bade 
Charles  gather  for  her  on  a  bygone  Sunday,  and  with- 
out a  remonstrance  he  had  done  so,  and  fouled  him- 
self to  the  knee. 

"  Could  you  get  me  that  bit  of  heather,  Mr.  Dun- 
ning? "  she  asked,  pointing  to  it. 

"  Don't  you  see  the  bog  between?  "  he  asked. 

"  Never  mind  if  'twill  wet  you." 

He  looked  at  the  heath  and  then  regarded  the  waste 
all  round  it. 

"  Can't  be  done,"  he  said  curtly.  "  If  you'd  used 
your  eyes  half  a  minute  you'd  see  it  couldn't." 

"  Mr.  Trevail  would  have  got  it." 

"  Yes,  we  know  that." 

They  turned  northerly,  because  Elisabeth  expressed 
a  wish  to  visit  certain  old  stone  rows  that  stretched 
there.  For  a  time  they  spoke  on  general  subjects, 
then,  suddenly,  without  warning,  he  returned  to  the 
flower. 

"  Never  waste  your  time  asking  me  to  do  silly 
things.  I  won't  do  'em.  'Tis  no  sign  of  a  man's  re- 
spect for  a  woman  to  humour  her  foolishness.  When 
you  be  feeling  silly,  go  to  Charles  Trevail — he'd  stand 
on  his  head  'pon  top  of  Cosdon  for  'e,  I  dare  swear. 
But  I  wouldn't.     If  you  want  sane  things  done  for 


<< 


84  THE  BEACON 

you,  and  'tis  in  my  power  and  in  my  reason  to  do  'em, 
I  will — coit  what  they  would." 

Mr.  Trevail  is  sane  enough  too." 
Sizes  too  small,  I  tell  you — sizes  too  small  that 
man  for  you.     There'll  be  a  misfit  if  you  take  him." 

She  did  not  know  whether  to  be  gratified  or  angry 
at  this.  Upon  the  whole  she  felt  annoyed  and  grew 
impatient.  She  determined  to  show  another  side  of 
her  mind,  because  she  felt  it  would  irritate  Dunning. 

They  came  to  those  remains  of  neolithic  man's  work 
locally  known  as  the  '  Cemetery.' 

"  I  love  these  stones,"  she  said.  "  I  make  up  stories 
in  my  mind  about  'em — and  about  other  things,  and, 
after  a  time,  I  get  to  believe  the  tales.  I  know  there 
are  all  sorts  of  things — live  things  too — that  haunt  the 
Moor.  They  see  us,  but  we  can't  see  them,  though 
we  can  feel  them." 

She  expected  an  explosion,  but  none  came. 

"  You'm  as  like  to  be  right  as  anybody  else.  I 
thought  once  that  I  saw  my  dead  mother  coming  to 
meet  me.  Then  a  thorn  rose  out  of  the  fog,  and  I 
marked  'twas  just  a  trick;  but  I  never  laugh  at  an- 
other person's  hidden  things,  so  long  as  they  don't 
laugh  at  mine." 

"  Fancy  that!  "  she  said.  "  And  have  you  got  hid- 
den things  too,  Mr.  Dunning?  I'd  love  to  hear  tell 
of  them." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  would?  "  he  said. 

"  'Tis  strange  what  men  think  silly  and  what  men 
think  sensible.  Mr.  Trevail  only  laughed  at  me  but 
once,  and  'twas  when  I  said  I  believed  in  ghosts  and 
dark  things  like  that." 

"  Let  him  laugh.  He'll  see  ghosts  too  some  day — 
unless  he's  too  big  a  fool  to  see  'em." 

They  wandered  for  another  hour  upon  the  eastern 
side  of  the  Beacon  and  then  returned  to  Clannaboro'. 

A  tea  not  sumptuous  awaited  them,  and  neither 
talked  much  while  they  ate  it.     Mrs.  Vallance  and 


THE  BEACON  85 

her  husband,  Noah,  joined  them  at  this  meal,  and  the 
old  people  chatted  freely. 

Lizzie  noticed  that  neither  had  any  fear  of  their 
master. 

She  asked  Dunning  to  accompany  her  home  and  he 
agreed  to  do  so. 

"  I'll  go  as  far  as  Red  Wheal,"  he  said. 

They  set  out  presently,  but  he  spoke  little,  and  for 
once  she  found  herself  talking  to  him  instead  of  lis- 
tening. 

When  he  had  gone  she  considered  the  experience, 
and  was  surprised  to  find  how  intimate  had  been  their 
speech.  She  grew  hot  once  or  twice  in  reconsidering 
it.  Again  came  over  her  the  conviction  that  Dunning 
was  a  man  of  character  and  worthy  of  some  admira- 
tion. She  found  it  in  her  to  pity  him  for  the  things 
he  lacked.  But  she  abstained,  remembering  his  esti- 
mate of  pity. 

Trevail  came  to  the  bar  that  evening  and  stayed 
till  closing  time,  and  asked  her  many  things  concern- 
ing her  walk  with  '  that  savage,'  as  he  called  Dunning. 
But  she  told  him  little  and  regretted  that  he  had 
appeared  so  closely  upon  her  experience  with  the 
other. 

That  night  she  reviewed  the  past  and  alternated  in 
a  manner  somewhat  interesting  between  anger  and 
pleasure,  as  her  thoughts  retraced  the  conversation 
and  its  points.  What  annoyed  her  then,  annoyed  her 
again  now ;  and  yet  she  felt  that,  given  time  to  adjust 
the  matter,  his  views  might  bear  a  more  favourable 
interpretation.  A  fact  that  specially  struck  her  sleep- 
less mind  was  this:  the  quality  of  the  talk  was  unlike 
any  she  had  before  listened  to  from  a  man.  Trevail's 
discourse  left  her  vaguely  contented  and  happy.  He 
was  a  great  listener.  But  Dunning,  albeit  famed  for 
taciturnity,  had  spoken  far  more  than  she.  She 
blamed  herself  for  having  been  a  dull  companion,  and 
finally  went  to  sleep  wondering  what  he  on  his  side 


86  THE  BEACOX 

had  thought  of  her.  With  Trevail  she  never  won- 
dered, because  his  frank  mind  had  windows  through 
which  she  could  look  at  will  and  see  herself  shrined 
within. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TIME  passed  and  winter  came,  not  as  a  turbulent 
conqueror,  but  shyly,  with  slow  approach  and  a 
tentative  frost  or  two  forgotten  at  rise  of  the  sun. 

By  Horders  Wood  under  Cosdon  was  an  old  wall 
that  bounded  a  copse  of  wind-dwarfed  spruce,  fir  and 
beech.  Here  offered  many  a  snug  and  protected  nook 
in  the  fern.  Whortleberries  and  heath  fledged  the 
wall,  and  above  it  hung  ripe  scarlet  harvests  of  the 
rowan.  It  was  in  this  place  that  Trevail  usually  pro- 
posed to  stop  when  he  walked  with  Elisabeth ;  but  she 
must  needs  always  clamber  to  the  top  of  the  Beacon 
before  she  was  satisfied.  These  attitudes  were  typical 
of  the  two  people.  And  sometimes  the  woman  re- 
fused all  escort  and  went  her  way  alone. 

She  did  so  now  on  a  day  in  December.  There  was 
a  little  cottage  by  Hordes  Wood  where  dwelt  Miss 
Fanny  Cann  alone,  and  thither  Lizzie  meant  presently 
to  go,  that  she  might  drink  tea  with  the  spinster. 
The  elder  liked  her  and  was  glad  to  see  her  when  she 
cared  to  call.  Great  matters  were  in  the  girl's  heart 
and  she  wanted  advice,  or  imagined  that  she  did. 

She  had  seen  more  of  Dunning  and  much  more  of 
Charles  Trevail.  She  was  practical  and  not  blind  to 
the  situation.  She  understood  now  that  both  these 
men  loved  her  and  that  either  would  marry  her  if  she 
desired  it.  What  she  did  not  know  and  could  not  see 
was  the  different  standpoint  from  which  they  regarded 
her. 

Reynold  Dunning,  to  his  own  fierce  amazement, 
loved  her,  and  the  love  of  her  mastered  his  spirit.  He 
perceived  her  fineness,  fearlessness  and  courage. 
What  he  loved  in  her  was  just  the  thing  that  a  little 

87 


88  THE  BEACON 

discomfited  his  rival.  Trevail  loved  too,  with  the 
full  strength  of  his  milder  nature;  but  it  was  not  for 
those  traits  attractive  to  Dunning  that  his  heart  was 
lost  to  Lizzie.  Indeed,  he  wished  she  was  a  little 
more  like  other  women  in  her  mind,  while  so  superior 
to  them  in  loveliness  of  body.  He  adored  the  things 
she  did ;  but  her  resolute  ambitions,  and  a  certain 
tempestuousness  of  soul  that  manifested  itself  some- 
times, left  him  uneasy.  Dunning  loved  her  character; 
Trevail  was  mastered  by  her  charm;  the  one  hun- 
gered for  her  strength;  the  other  yearned  for  her 
sweetness. 

Elisabeth  did  not  speculate  as  to  what  drew  them; 
she  only  weighed  their  relative  virtues  and  merits  and 
her  own  emotions  with  respect  to  each.  Dunning  was 
the  rarer  lover  and  a  man  to  boot ;  but  the  weakness 
of  Trevail  appealed  more  to  her  than  the  strength  of 
the  other.  It  left  wider  scope  for  her  own  part  on 
the  stage ;  she  came  from  Trevail  with  a  cheerful  con- 
ceit of  herself;  from  Dunning  in  a  mood  somewhat 
self-conscious  and  cast  down.  She  liked  Trevail's 
love-making  in  its  humility  better  than  Dunning's  in 
its  bluff  imperiousness ;  but  against  that  she  knew  the 
praise  of  Trevail  was  to  the  other's  a  field  of  daisies 
to  the  sudden  sparkle  of  a  rare  wild  flower.  She 
knew  that  she  might  be  immensely  valuable  to  Charles 
Trevail,  but  hardly  to  Dunning.  He  could  only  be 
valuable  to  her.  She  admitted  that  much  in  some 
moods ;  but  not  even  that  much  always.  At  times  she 
denied  him  all  value  higher  than  that  of  a  sermon. 

She  had  continued  to  make  feminine  experiments 
to  learn  which  man  was  the  quicker  to  do  her  bidding 
and  take  trouble  for  her ;  and  she  found  the  initial  test 
of  the  heather  held  good  in  greater  things.  Trevail 
would  make  himself  ridiculous  on  her  account  with  the 
blind  unconsciousness  of  a  dancing  dog.  Like  a 
monkey,  rendered  contemptible  in  a  coat  and  hat,  he 
proceeded  to  satisfy  any  whim,  till  she  was  ashamed 


THE  BEACON  89 

of  herself  and  could  have  wept ;  but  Reynold  Dunning 
rebuked  her  openly,  in  the  bar  or  elsewhere,  if  she 
sought  to  put  any  slight  on  him. 

"  Laugh  at  fools,  if  you  think  'tis  worth  while,"  he 
said ;  "  but  you  shall  never  laugh  at  me." 

She  quarrelled  with  him  once  bitterly  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Trevail,  and  she  went  to  Trevail  very  sore 
from  some  harsh,  cathartic  speeches  that  angered  as 
much  as  they  hurt  her.  And  Trevail,  not  knowing  or 
guessing  the  reason  of  her  trouble,  was  very  gentle 
and  soothing,  and  offered  to  do  unnumbered  heroic 
things  on  her  behalf — if  she  would  but  tell  him  what 
they  were  to  be. 

So  she  stood  between  them  and  guessed  that  she 
might  make  the  weak  man  stronger,  and  believed  that 
the  strong  man  was  beyond  woman's  power  to  change. 
She  made  the  mistake  of  supposing  that  a  weak  man 
is  easier  turned  from  his  weakness  than  a  strong  man 
from  his  strength.  She  knew  in  what  particulars  she 
would  alter  Trevail.  That  was  an  obvious  and  a 
beautiful  task ;  but  the  alternative  offered  a  harder 
problem  and  therefore  a  more  interesting.  How 
would  she  alter  Dunning — even  if  she  could?  The 
theme  often  occupied  her,  often  even  amused  her. 

She  was  thinking  of  it  now  as  she  climbed  the  Bea- 
con alone,  and  she  laughed  to  herself — a  little,  short, 
sudden  laugh,  like  a  chaffinch's  song.  She  saw  no 
light  there  and  turned  to  the  pleasure  of  the  hill. 

The  rough  road  climbed  between  dry-built  walls 
among  little  fields  reclaimed  off  the  lower  slopes  of 
Cosdon.  Most  of  these  crofts  stood  under  permanent 
grass,  and  at  one  corner  of  each  there  squatted  a  little 
rick,  with  a  heavy  stone  or  two  to  keep  down  the 
thatch  and  a  gash  on  the  windward  side,  where  it  had 
been  carved  into  for  hay.  Seen  afar,  the  walls  hung 
like  a  tattered  grey  net  on  the  bosom  of  the  hill;  many 
were  ruined,  and  fern  and  furze  often  broke  the  grass 
land  and  showed  where  Cosdon  had  made  a  counter- 


90  THE  BEACON 

stroke  and  won  again  some  outpost  from  the  armies 
of  man.  Lizzie  rejoiced  to  mark  civilization  beaten 
back  in  this  fashion,  for  her  sympathies  were  all  with 
the  inviolate  spirit  of  the  mount. 

Chance  visitors  had  found  the  winter  waste  deso- 
late and  forbidding.  In  its  stern,  brutal  coat  Cosdon 
rolled  all  dun  and  drab,  lit  only  by  the  ash-coloured 
pallor  of  heath-bells  and  livid  grass.  Water-logged, 
lifeless  and  dark,  the  hill  ascended  under  a  low  sun, 
that  now  seemed  to  creep  in  the  actual  arc  of  the 
Beacon — to  follow  its  rise,  hang  at  noon  above  its 
loftiest  barrows  and  then  slide  westerly  by  its  sweep 
and  descent  into  night  again.  To-day  the  air  was  full 
of  moisture  and  the  top  of  the  hill  burnt  in  a  radiant, 
silvery  mist  of  cool  fire.  Lances  and  shafts  of  light 
broke  briefly  along  the  crest  of  the  hill.  But  the  fog 
shredded  away  before  Elisabeth  reached  it,  and  the 
splendour  of  that  afternoon  was  not  with  Cosdon,  but 
with  the  world  spread  out  beneath. 

A  magnificent  and  dusky  earth  met  her  gaze.  It 
was  swept  with  grey  rainstorms  and  lighted  by  win- 
dows in  the  high  clouds,  through  which  fell  broad 
fans  of  pale  sunshine,  chilled  by  the  sodden  heaviness 
of  the  air.  The  light  roamed  from  west  to  east  over 
the  surface  of  the  land  and  rolled  onwards,  like  a 
flood  rather  than  a  fire,  through  the  midst  of  the  preva- 
lent gloom.  Earth  heaved  to  her  knaps  and  knolls, 
fell  again  to  her  coombs  and  valleys  and  deep,  river- 
haunted  denes;  but  a  great  darkness  and  heavy  pres- 
sure of  atmosphere  was  upon  her.  Her  forests  were 
painted  in  colours  of  purple;  her  fallows  and  fields 
in  umber  and  lead.  All  were  washed  together  and 
harmonized  by  great  passages  of  gloom,  where  up- 
lifted Exmoor  mingled  afar  off  with  the  clouds  of  a 
storm.  The  thick  air  released  the  light  reluctantly, 
and  Cosdon  presently  stood — almost  pallid  by  con- 
trast with  a  sinister  blackness  to  windward.  So  dark 
were  the  approaching  clouds  that  the  wayfarer,  while 


THE  BEACON  91 

she  rejoiced  at  the  tremendous  sights  spread  out  above 
and  beneath  her,  yet  turned  her  back  to  the  coming 
storm  and  made  haste  to  descend  where  shelter  might 
be  found.  Now  the  Moor  rolled  darkly  to  her  feet, 
unlighted  save  for  the  wan  flicker  of  granite  dust  upon 
the  pathway.  She  turned  and  ran,  but  her  heart  sank 
with  her  body,  for  she  loved  the  toil  of  climbing  here 
and  felt  her  spirit  subside  a  little  with  the  declivity 
when  the  time  came  to  descend. 

Elisabeth  made  haste  and  had  reached  the  cottage 
where  Fanny  Cann  lived  before  the  next  storm  broke. 
The  spinster,  who  liked  her  well,  now  extended  a 
great  hair-tagged  jowl  to  be  kissed.  Then  she 
marked  Lizzie's  colour  and  panting  bosom. 

'  What  a  girl — to  go  dancing  up  there  this  weather ! 
You'll  do  it  once  too  often  and  be  caught  in  a  scat  as 
will  drown  you  and  give  you  your  death  very  like. 
All  the  same  I'm  glad  to  see  you  aloft  there.  It  gives 
them  a  lesson.  They  think  women  be  afeared  of  the 
Beacon  in  winter,  and  what  I  say  and  always  shall 
say  be  just  this:  that  women  fear  nought  that  men 
don't  fear." 

"  You've  got  no  use  for  men,  Miss  Cann?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not — know  'em  too  well.  It  makes 
me  mad  sometimes  how  they  trample ;  but  I'll  tell  you 
why  'tis:  they've  got  the  wit  to  band  together.  All 
the  feeble  sort  of  creatures — like  sheep  and  grass-eat- 
ing things  in  general — band  together.  And  that's 
their  strength.  If  men  didn't  band  against  us  we 
should  be  all  over  'em  and  they'd  find  themselves  in 
their  proper  place  again.  'Tis  a  sin  and  a  shame  that 
we  go  under  like  we  do,  for  there  be  more  of  us  than 
them.  Which  shows,  if  it  wanted  showing,  that 
Heaven  likes  us  best.  But,  for  all  our  numbers,  we 
haven't  got  the  art  to  band  and  so  'tis  as  it  is." 

Miss  Cann  took  breath  and  then  proceeded  on  her 
favourite  subject. 

"  But  the  time  is  coming.     I  see  signs.     They  be 


92  THE  BEACON 

awake  to  their  danger  and  our  power  at  last.  The 
old  way  of  bowing  and  scraping  to  us,  and  then  wink- 
ing behind  our  backs  to  one  another — that's  all  gone. 
They  won't  take  off  their  hats  to  us  much  longer; 
they'll  have  to  take  off  their  coats  to  us  instead.  Our 
turn  be  coming." 

"  You  do  run  on  so,  Miss  Cann,  but  I'm  sure  they're 
not  all  what  you  think  them." 

"  Be  sure  of  nought  where  they're  concerned  save 
this:  that  man  and  selfishness  be  two  words  for  the 
same  thing.  Take  love-making  itself — and  that's 
about  the  only  business  where  they  even  pretend  to 
lift  us  above  themselves — what  is  it?  Only  a  trick 
to  do  what  they  can't  do  without  us.  They'm  made 
terrible  uncomfortable  at  such  times,  because  Nature's 
at  'em  for  all  she's  worth,  to  hand  on  their  ugly  images 
to  the  next  generation ;  and  Nature  says,  '  You  go  for 
the  women,  and  I  won't  give  you  no  more  peace  till 
I've  done  what  I  want  you  to  do.'  And  then,  after- 
wards, they  just  sink  back  again  into  the  banding 
wretches  they  are,  and  creep  off  to  their  clubs  and 
pubs  as  before,  and  haven't  got  no  more  use  for  their 
wives  and  children  than  Nature  have  got  more  use  for 
them.  Perched  up  here  I  see  these  things,  and  I  tell 
you  the  truth  without  passion — just  the  cold,  bitter 
truth.  I'm  not  even  angry  with  'em  now;  they  can't 
help  it — poor  trash." 

"  'Tis  rather  unlucky  you're  so  set  up  against  the 
men  to-day,"  declared  Lizzie,  "  because,  before  all 
else,  I  wanted  your  advice  about  two  of  'em." 

"  Two,  or  ten,  or  ten  thousand,  my  opinion  will  be 
the  same." 

"Don't  say  that.  Even  you  must  allow  there  are 
good  and  bad.     I've  known  you  praise  your  father." 

"  My  father  was  one  of  the  rare  sort.  He  knew  his 
place.  He  banded  along  with  my  mother  and  my 
aunts." 


THE  BEACON  93 

"  But  I  don't  think  as  you  think,  and  I  hope  very 
much  for  a  home  of  my  own  some  day." 

"  Well,  save  for  it,  like  I  did.  I've  got  a  home  of 
my  own,  haven't  I?  " 

"  I  want  to  be  married,  and  I  should  be  very  sorry 
indeed  to  keep  single,"  said  Lizzie. 

"  You're  frank.  I  should  have  thought  now  that 
seeing  them  from  behind  a  bar  was  like  to  choke  a 
woman  off  them  pretty  near  quicker  than  anything?  ': 

"  We  don't  think  alike  there,  but  you're  large- 
minded  ;  you  won't  mind  giving  me  a  bit  of  advice." 

"And  if  'tis  good  you  won't  take  it.  That's  the 
way  with  advice.  I  always  know  when  this  or  that 
person  haven't  took  advice,  that  'twas  sure  to  have 
been  good.  And  yet  the  people  sensible  enough  to 
give  good  advice  be  generally  sensible  enough  to  give 
none.  Tis  like  the  matter  of  health.  I  never  will 
touch  it  with  man  or  woman.  Because  if  they  be 
fools,  you'm  only  wasting  your  time,  and  if  they  be 
wise,  you'm  only  wasting  theirs.  However,  I'm  thirty 
years  older  than  you,  if  not  more,  and  I'll  very  will- 
ingly let  you  have  my  opinion,  because  you're  a  dear 
maid  and  I  like  you." 

They  ate  and  drank;  then  the  younger  stated  her 
case. 

"  There  are  two  men  want  to  marry  me.  It  may 
seem  vain  to  say  such  a  thing,  especially  as  neither  of 
them  have  asked  me  yet,  but  I  know  the  signs.  What 
woman  don't?  It  comes  naturally  to  us  to  know 
them." 

"  And  one's  called  Dunning  and  t'other's  called  Tre- 

vail." 

Lizzie  nodded. 

"  Couldn't  keep  secrets  from  you  if  I  would,"  she 
said.  "  Perched  up  here,  you  look  down  at  Zeal,  and 
nothing's  hidden.  They  are  both  very  nice  men,  I'm 
sure,  but  very  different,  of  course." 


94  THE  BEACON 

"  Caterpillars  and  wasps  be  different,"  answered 
Fanny,  "  but  they'm  both  varmints  and  both  alike  in 
thinking  of  nobody  but  themselves,  from  the  time  they 
get  up  in  the  morning  till  the  time  they  go  to  bed  at 
night.  Dunning  and  Charlie  are  pretty  fair  samples 
of  pretty  common  sorts.  The  one's  a  pushing,  driv- 
ing, hard-headed,  hard-hearted  chap,  as  I  never 
thought  to  see  bowled  over  by  any  woman;  and  the 
other's  an  easy,  simple  soul,  as  don't  know  his  luck 
and  just  lives  at  the  beck  and  call  of  that  monster  of  a 
man,  his  uncle.  Trevail's  only  a  creature  of  Morti- 
more's.  He  belongs  to  Mortimore  body  and  soul. 
He  wouldn't  no  more  dare  do  anything  on  his  own 
account,  without  asking  '  Iron '  Mortimore,  than  a 
two-year-old  child  will  dare  to  go  very  far  from  his 
mother.  He  wouldn't  dare  to  ask  you  to  marry  him 
unless  he  first  asked  his  uncle  if  he  might." 

"  I'm  sure  you  know  little  of  him  to  say  such  things. 
He's  quite  free  and  independent.  He  farms  his  un- 
cle's land  and  pays  rent.  But  he's  not  bound  to  him 
except  in  the  way  of  gratitude  for  all  he  did  for  him 
when  he  was  a  friendless  orphan  child." 

"  He  belongs  to  Mortimore  body  and  soul,"  repeated 
Miss  Cann,  "  and  if  he  says  different,  you  wait  till  you 
know  better  and  satisfy  your  own  eyes.  Charlie's  all 
right.  I  ought  to  praise  him  from  my  point  of  view; 
because  he's  milk  for  babes,  and  any  pretty  strong 
woman,  such  as  you,  could  do  what  she  pleased  with 
him.  Yes,  if  I  stuck  to  my  true  colours  I'd  always 
say  to  any  woman  who  must  marry,  '  Marry  a  weak 
one  for  the  sake  of  the  future  of  the  female  race ' ; 
but  there  it  is,  we  brag  and  we  blow  and  we  talk  big, 
and  yet,  when  it  comes  to  the  point,  we  often  eat  our 
own  opinions  and  go  back  on  the  thing  we  said 
yesterday.  We  ban't  much  better  than  them  in 
that." 

"  You  think  Mr.  Trevail's  weak?  " 

"  So  do  you,"  answered  Fanny.     "  Leastways,  you 


THE  BEACON  95 

don't  think  about  it:  you  know  he  is.  And  you'm 
strong,  and  that's  why  he  draws  you.  And  as  for 
t'other,  he's  not  weak,  no  more  than  a  bull  is  weak. 
He's  got  all  the  male  faults  and  he  spurns  us,  and  I 
know  what  I  think  of  him  exactly.  But  the  point  of 
view  is  different.  You  want  to  be  married  and  mean 
to  be,  I  suppose.  I've  got  to  look  at  Dunning  now — 
not  as  one  of  them ;  but  as  a  husband  for  you." 

"  Yes,  and  Trevail  the  same." 

"  And  Trevail  the  same,  and  that's  why  I  said  just 
now  I'm  not  true  to  my  own  colours,  because  for  me 
not  to  say  '  marry  Trevail  and  be  the  grey  mare,'  is  to 
be  false  to  my  opinions.  And  yet — yet,  Lizzie  dear — 
I'm  fond  of  you  and  I  can't  fool  myself  in  the  matter 
and  I  know — but  for  God's  sake  don't  you  say  I  said 
it — I  know  that  the  time  ban't  altogether  ripe  for  my 
great  ideas.  And  when  it  comes  to  practice,  marriage 
means  the  happiness  or  misery  of  a  woman  every  time. 
And — well,  there  it  is — I  want  your  happiness,  and  I 
believe  for  the  minute — though  it  won't  be  so  much 
longer — for  the  minute  the  women  of  your  genera- 
tion be  happier  doing  the  old  work.  I  blush  to  say 
it — I  wouldn't  say  it  to  another  soul.  But  I  do  say 
that  Dunning,  though  he's  a  brute,  might  love  prop- 
erly, so  far  as  a  man  knows  how,  and  even  love  last- 
ingly— that  is  so  long  as  he  had  the  mastery.  But 
Charlie  never  would  have  the  mastery,  because  he's 
not  built  to  master  anything,  and  where  they  haven't 
got  the  mastery,  they  be  always  uncertain  and  trouble- 
some. I  know,  I  tell  you.  You  look  at  my  nephew 
Tom.  Afore  he  wedded,  that  man  hadn't  a  secret 
from  the  sun.  But  he  have  now.  Minnie's  got  a  lot 
to  larn  yet.  And  that's  why  I  say  that,  though  it  may 
be  better  for  their  natures  to  be  under  our  dominion 
and  taught  their  places,  yet  they've  a  nasty  way  of  get- 
ting back  on  us.  They're  horrid  creatures,  take  'em 
how  you  please,  but  better  if  they'm  allowed  to  go 
their  own  way  than  if  we  try  to  pull  'em  ours.     Be- 


96  THE  BEACON 

tween  these  two  men,  Lizzie,  you've  got  to  choose, 
and  one  you'll  rule  and  one  will  rule  you.  There  'tis 
in  a  nutshell.  The  ruled  man  soon  forgets  how  to 
love  and,  so  like  as  not,  goes  somewhere  else  to  be 
taught  again ;  and  the  ruled  woman — well,  more  shame 
to  'em,  they're  often  happy  enough — so  is  a  mean- 
spirited  bird  in  a  cage." 

"  Is  there  no  middle  way?  Can't  husband  and  wife 
give  and  take?  " 

"  Yes,  it  happens — about  so  often  as  an  eclipse  of 
the  sun  happens,  or  the  great  comets  wander  over  the 
sky.     We  can  call  such  things  to  mind." 

"  You'd  say  '  marry  neither,'  but  suppose  I  want  to 
marry  one  ?  " 

"  Marry  Dunning,"  said  Miss  Cann.  "If  wed  you 
must,  take  him.  I  like  Charlie  best,  and  so  do  you,  I 
believe,  but  marry  Dunning  if  you  want  even  to  pre- 
tend you're  a  happy  woman  ten  years  hence.  Of 
course  you  won't,  I  know  that.  'Tis  enough  for  me 
to  have  said  '  Dunning '  for  you  to  go  t'other.  You 
think  you're  strong  enough  to  lift  him  up  and  make 
a  man  of  him.  But  you're  not.  '  Make  men  of  'em ! ' 
what  twaddle  we  females  tell !  They  don't  talk  about 
making  women  of  us.  No — all  they  do  most  times  is 
to  make  fools  of  us,  and  that's  been  easy  from  the 
first,  but  it  won't  be  easy  much  longer.  The  boot's  on 
the  other  leg.  'Tis  they  that  begin  to  look  bigger 
fools  every  day." 

"  You  say  Mr.  Dunning?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  say  further  that,  when  the  time  comes, 
'twill  be  Charlie.  Perhaps  it  was  just  because  I  knew 
you  was  bound  to  run  counter  that  I  named  the  man 
at  Clannaboro'.  Well,  go  your  way  on  it,  and  you 
can  take  this  for  your  comfort  that  the  weak  man  will 
be  mighty  rich  some  day — unless  he  falls  out  with  his 
uncle." 

Elisabeth  was  surprised. 


THE  BEACON  97 

"  I'm  sure  you  don't  mean  that,  or  I'd  be  vexed," 
she  said.  "  You  know  well  enough  I'm  not  thinking 
about  their  riches;  I'm  thinking  about  them." 

"  Well,  go  on  thinking,"  answered  Fanny.  "  My 
experience  is  that  the  more  you  think  of  them,  the 
worse  they  shape  under  it.  Go  on  thinking,  and  per- 
haps, before  either  of  'em  offer,  you'll  have  thought 
them  into  their  proper  places  and  decided  against  both. 
And  they  be  thinking  of  you  no  doubt;  and  I  daresay 
if  you  could  but  look  into  their  minds  and  see  how 
they  thought  of  you,  that  would  decide  you  against  the 
pair  of  'em  quicker  than  a  flap  of  lightning." 

They  talked  awhile  longer  and  then,  at  night-fall, 
the  guest  went  her  way  conscious  that  Miss  Cann's 
advice  had  left  her  cold. 

Going  home  there  flashed  an  inspiration  into  her 
head. 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to  take  the  one  that  asks  me 
first !  "  she  thought.  But  the  idea  perished  still-born. 
She  was  not  the  sort  of  girl  to  let  so  mighty  a  de- 
cision rest  on  so  small  an  accident.  So  she  assured 
herself. 

A  man  was  standing  smoking  at  the  bottom  of  the 
lane  from  Cosdon,  where  the  high  road  girdled  the 
hill. 

"I  thought  you'd  let  me  just  see  you  back  from 
here,"  Trevail  said.  "  I  feared  you'd  be  vexed,  but 
I've  risked  it.     Hope  you'll  excuse  me." 

She  was  gracious.  His  gentle  but  masculine  voice 
stroked  her  ear  pleasantly  after  the  vibrating  tones 
from  the  cottage  aloft. 

"  I've  been  drinking  tea  with  Miss  Cann."  she  told 
him. 

"  Yes — a  soured  woman.  Her  great  misfortune  in 
life  have  turned  her  acid." 

"  Her  great  misfortune?  "  asked  Lizzie. 

"  Why,  yes — can't  you  see  she's  one  of  those  poor 

7 


98  THE  BEACON 

creatures  muddled  in  the  making?  She  ought  to  have 
been  born  a  man." 

"  She'd  kill  any  man  that  told  her  so,"  answered 
Lizzie. 

They  laughed  together  rather  foolishly. 


CHAPTER  X 

TO  the  east  of  the  kilns  the  immense  embouchure 
of  Mortimore's  limestone  quarry  broke  the  hill. 
The  surface  line  was  a  long  ridge  inclined  upward, 
with  grass  lands  running  to  a  fence  at  the  top,  and  be- 
low, riven  earth  showed  all  the  secrets  of  her  bosom. 
Here  dragged  in  parallel  lines  upward,  here  dipping 
abruptly,  here  broken  and  crumpled  every  way  upon 
itself  in  folds  and  wrinkles,  the  limestone  ran.  Like 
sand  in  an  hour-glass,  great  mounds  of  earth  spread 
out  from  faults  and  fissures  in  the  face  of  the  cliffs. 
The  trend  of  the  strata  was  always  upward,  but  its 
progress  had  been  broken  by  lateral  and  fundamental 
pressures  so  that  beautiful  loops  and  semi-circles  and 
precious  patterns  had  been  drawn  upon  the  quarry 
faces.  The  layers  and  ripples  rose  and  fell,  billowed, 
like  broken  waves  of  a  turbulent  sea,  sank  again  into 
the  severe,  ascending  lines  of  the  mass.  Superim- 
posed upon  the  limestone  lay  a  rind  of  rusty-coloured 
earth  that  penetrated  the  mineral  below  and  was  im- 
penetrated by  it.  Manifold  hues  made  rich  work  upon 
the  quarry,  but  the  prevalent  tones  were  sepia  and 
russet,  brightening  to  rose  above,  and  darkening  to 
blue-black  streaked  with  silver  below.  The  upper 
cliff  was  barred  and  banded  like  an  agate;  the  lower 
showed  the  limestone  veined  with  pure  white  quartz, 
all  clean  and  bright  where  the  last  blastings  had  left 
its  faces  bare. 

Sunlight  playing  among  these  rifts  and  scarps  im- 
parted a  glittering  radiance  to  them,  and  proclaimed 
that  marble  was  chief  component  of  the  whole. 
Shining  indeed  they  could  be,  but  the  quarry  was  a 
haunt  of  shadows  and  mystery  when  days  grew  dark, 
and  when,  at  the  gloaming  time,  the  sudden  voice  woke 

99 


100  THE  BEACON 

echoes  or  loosened  a  stone.  Then  whispers  and  mur- 
murs and  counter-murmurs  seemed  to  speak  of  other 
life,  close  hid  through  the  working  day,  and  the  rustle 
and  fall  of  earth  hinted  superhuman  activities  to  an 
imaginative  watcher. 

Hither  came  Elisabeth  Densham  on  the  occasion  of 
her  weekly  holiday,  and  with  her  was  Trevail.  The 
circumstances  of  her  life  caused  courting  to  take  place 
in  the  open  air.  Indeed  she  liked  it  better  so,  and  was 
never  within  doors  when  she  might  be  out. 

Now  the  farmer  showed  her  the  wonders  of  his 
uncle's  quarry,  and  he  dwelt  on  the  price  of  lime  and 
the  process  of  burning  it,  while  she,  faced  with  the 
writhings  and  throes  of  this  marble  hill  in  the  making, 
cared  not  for  industrial  details.  These  frozen  con- 
vulsions thus  gigantically  revealed,  by  pick  and 
dynamite,  impressed  the  woman.  Her  nature  turned 
to  large  things  and  the  quarry  attracted  her. 

"  I  knew  you'd  like  it  if  I  once  got  you  down  here," 
he  said.  "  'Tis  just  the  sort  of  rum,  savage  old  place 
you  do  like.  You'll  find  hobgoblins  and  all  sorts  of 
queer  devils  here  come  presently.  All  that  brown  rub- 
bish atop  of  the  limestone  makes  it  expensive  work. 
'Tis  called  the  '  over-hang '  and  is  worthless,  but  as 
more  and  more  of  the  limestone  is  got  out  the  over- 
hang has  got  to  come  away,  or  else  'twould  fall  and 
kill  people." 

"  The  quarry  is  full  of  queer  faces,"  said  Lizzie. 
"You  see  where  that  dead  tree  hangs  out?  If  you 
look  just  under,  there's  a  horrid  thing  like  a  monkey 
poking  its  head  from  between  two  rocks." 

But  he  could  not  see  it. 

Reduced  to  the  size  of  dolls  a  dozen  men  worked 
beneath  them,  for  they  stood  over  against  the  quarry 
on  high  ground  and  looked  across  into  it.  The  mid- 
gets below  crept  about  upon  the  broken  places,  and 
some  toiled  at  the  bottom,  and  some,  tethered  by  ropes 
to  crowbars,  worked  aloft  and  hammered  holes   for 


THE  BEACON  101 

explosives.  The  ring  and  clink  of  steel  upon  the  stone 
rose  musical  from  the  depths,  while  another  sound 
was  uttered  by  the  dull  and  hollow  drumming  of  great 
hammers,  that  smashed  the  fragments  of  the  latest 
blast  for  the  kiln. 

"  They  look  like  mice  in  a  great  ripe  cheese,"  said 
Lizzie,  and  Trevail  applauded  the  simile. 

[  You  clever  girl !  Whoever  but  you  would  have 
thought  of  such  a  thing?  We'll  go  now  and  see  the 
kilns  if  you've  had  enough  of  this." 

"  Not  nearly  enough,"  she  answered.  "  'Tis  a  very 
interesting  and  wonderful  place.  I  should  dearly  like 
to  come  here  by  night,  when  all  the  men  have 
gone.  I'll  get  fond  of  it  presently.  I'll  find  the 
faces  of  friends  and  enemies  looking  out  at  me.  I 
love  to  make  my  own  flesh  creep  a  bit  sometimes. 
But  I  can  only  do  it  when  I'm  all  alone  in  some 
desolate  spot.  I  like  a  spice  of  danger  to  a  thing,  as 
you  know." 

"  Well,  I  don't,  and  I  wish  you  didn't.  Give  me 
comfort  and  security.  My  farm  lies  up  yonder;  you 
can  see  the  roof." 

Lizzie  had  visited  North  Combe  on  a  previous  occa- 
sion, with  Ned  Startup  and  his  betrothed.  She  was 
reminded  of  this  as  Trevail  spoke,  and  the  recollection 
put  another  fact  into  her  head. 

"  Have  you  heard  that  Nelly  Jope  and  Ned  are  going 
to  be  married  at  Easter?  'Tis  all  settled.  She  will 
leave  us  then,  but  Ned  is  going  to  stop  on.  They've 
taken  a  very  nice  cottage  at  Tawton." 

"  Hope  they'll  be  happy.  I  wish  to  God — "  He 
broke  off".  "  Come  and  see  the  water-wheel  and  the 
kilns  now.  Everything  is  worked  by  water.  The 
trolleys  are  drawn  up  by  it  and  the  quarry  is  pumped 
by  it.  If  the  pumps  weren't  always  going,  the  place 
would  be  under  water  in  a  month.  That's  what  has 
happened  to  the  old  quarry,  where  my  uncle  keeps  a 
boat  and  catches  fish." 


102  THE  BEACON 

"  Let's  go  out  in  the  boat !  "  she  said  presently,  but 
Charles  hesitated. 

"  I  think  not.     He  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  Well,  I  would,"  she  said,  remembering  a  prophecy 
of  Dunning's. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  the  kiln?  " 

"  No,  I  want  to  go  in  the  boat  on  the  pond." 

"  Then  you  shall.  Come  on,"  he  answered,  with  a 
show  of  resolution  bred  from  uneasiness. 

They  approached  the  little  tarn,  and  soon  Lizzie  sat 
aft  on  Trevail's  coat  in  Abraham  Mortimore's  punt, 
while  Charlie  took  the  oars  and  paddled  out  into  deep 
water. 

The  man  was  uncomfortable  and  his  companion 
had  leisure  to  note  it.  She  sat  and  dabbled  her  hand 
in  the  dark  water.  The  banks  of  the  tarn  were  naked 
and  a  cold  wind  crept  hither  and  thither  in  cat's  paws 
on  its  surface. 

They  said  little  for  a  while,  then  Trevail  spoke. 

"What's  the  fun  of  this?  I'm  sure  you'll  get 
chilled  to  the  bone." 

She  had  seen  a  man  running  through  the  woods 
some  distance  off  and  knew  that  it  was  Mortimore. 
She  rejoiced  at  this.  There  would  be  words,  and  the 
attitude  of  Charles  before  the  ferocious  elder  promised 
to  interest  her. 

He  spoke  again. 

"  I  don't  know  whatever  my  uncle  would  say  to 
this." 

'  Don't  you?  Well,  you  soon  will,"  answered  Liz- 
zie. "  He's  coming.  I  saw  him  on  the  top  just  now 
— running  too.  I  expect  he  thinks  some  strangers 
have  got  his  boat.     No  doubt  he'll  be  in  a  grand  rage." 

The  man  showed  great  annoyance. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  had  this  happen  for — " 

He  broke  off  and  began  to  paddle  ashore.  The 
struggle  was  at  hand.  She  had  it  on  her  lips  to  bid 
him  stop  where  he  was,  but,  before  she  could  speak, 


THE  BEACON  103 

Abraham  Mortimore  stood  on  the  bank  and  shouted 
to  them. 

He  was  very  angry  and  did  not  pick  his  words. 

"  What  the  hell  be  you  doing  here,  Charles  Trevail  ? 
Ban't  it  enough  as  I  ordered  you  to  Okehampton  this 
morning  about  they  new  gates?  And  you  disobey 
there  and  you  disobey  here  ?  Come  ashore ;  come 
ashore,  I  tell  you!  You  shall  smart  for  this.  You 
dare  to  break  faith  with  me  again  and  I'll  cast  you 
out,  you  lazy  dog !  " 

"  I  should  wait  till  he  calms  down  a  bit,"  said  Liz- 
zie, but  Trevail  was  already  paddling  to  the  bank. 

"  He  won't  calm  down,"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

"Faster!'  roared  Mortimore.  "Damn  your 
cheek,  taking  a  woman  out  in  my  boat,  and  wasting 
your  time  playing  the  fool!     What  next,  I  wonder?  ': 

They  came  ashore  and  the  rower  helped  Lizzie  to 
land. 

"If  you  wasn't  a  man,  and  supposed  to  be  a  re- 
spectable one,  I'd  fling  you  in  the  water  and  trample 
on  you  for  this,"  cried  the  miser.  "  God's  light ! 
What  next — what  next  will  you  do?  And  you  or- 
dered to  be  in  Okehampton  for  they  gates.  And,  in- 
stead, you  flaunt  my  commands,  and  worse — worse, 
you  dare  to  come  here  and  take  my  boat." 

"  I  was  going  to  Okehampton  to-morrow.  It  was 
Miss  Densham's  afternoon  out,  and  she  wanted  to  see 
the  quarry,  and  she  wanted  to  go  in  the  boat.  Surely, 
uncle,  you  won't  say  no  more  where  a  lady's  in  the 
case?  " 

"  Damn  your  lady  and  you  too.  Get  going — get 
going,  I  say — now,  this  instant  moment!  And  if  you 
don't  come  in  to  me  to-night  and  tell  me  they  gates 
are  in  hand  and  to  be  here  next  week — if  you  don't 
do  that,  God's  my  judge  but  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the 
farm!" 

"  To-morrow — " 

"  To  hell  with  to-morrow !     'Tis  always  to-morrow 


104  THE  BEACON 

with  loafing  rogues  here.  To-morrow  you'll  be  home- 
less, so  sure  as  the  sun  rises,  if  you  don't  go  to  Oke- 
hampton  to-day.  I'm  tired  of  your  ways — for  ever 
mooning  after  this  woman.  And  why  do  she  keep 
you  dangling — why?  Don't  you  know?  Then  I'll 
tell  you.  'Tisn't  because  she  cares  a  cuss  for  you. 
She's  not  the  sort  to  fancy  a  slack-twisted  worm  like 
you.  'Tis  because  she  thinks  you'll  have  my  money, 
and  she's  a  fool  for  her  pains.  And  I  tell  her  so  to 
her  face." 

He  stopped  and  snorted. 

"  Go  on !  "  said  Elisabeth.  "  I've  never  heard  you 
talk  before,  Mr.  Mortimore." 

He  glared  at  her. 

"  Don't  you  think  to  face  me,  you  minx.  Don't  I 
know  what  you're  worth — what  you're  all  worth? 
Yes,  you  see  yourself  counting  my  money  when  I'm 
gone.  Gone!  Be  I  the  sort  to  go?  They  don't  call 
me  '  Iron  '  for  nothing.  Iron  inside  and  out.  I'll  see 
him  in  the  dust,  and  you  too  belike.  My  father  lived 
till  he  was  a  hundred  and  got  me  when  he  was  sixty- 
five!  Now,  begone  you — to  Okehampton,  or  you'll 
wake  a  pauper  to-morrow." 

Trevail  looked  at  Elisabeth,  as  a  naughty  boy  looks 
at  his  mother  when  his  father  is  scolding  him. 

"  You'll  do  well  to  go,  Mr.  Trevail,"  she  said 
quietly. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  took  off  his  hat  to  her 
and  went  without  another  word. 

She  was  angry  and  humiliated,  and  she  turned  on 
the  old  man  fiercely. 

"  Well  may  the  people  hate  you,"  she  said.  "  They 
were  right,  I  see,  and  I  was  wrong.  I've  stood  up 
for  you  till  to-day.  When  they  said  the  truth  about 
you  in  the  bar,  I  always  doubted,  because  I'd  only  seen 
you  there  of  a  night — quiet,  watchful,  behaving  de- 
cently, and  only  laughing  in  your  sleeve  at  the  fools. 
But  now  I  know  what  you  really  are — a  coarse,  evil- 


THE  BEACON  105 

minded  old  man,  with  nothing  in  his  head  but  the 
nasty  thought  of  how  to  get  money.  And  never  you 
dare  to  drag  me  into  your  speech  again,  because  I 
won't  have  it!  And  I  hate  money,  and  if  ever  I  took 
your  nephew,  the  first  thing  I  should  try  to  do  would 
be  to  make  him  brave  and  not  frightened  of  your 
noise." 

He  stared  at  her. 

"  A  chit  like  you  can  talk  like  that.  Brave !  Let 
me  see  the  man  that's  brave  afore  the  sight  of  a  sov- 
ereign— or  the  woman  either.  You  vain,  ignorant  lit- 
tle fool,  what  be  the  likes  of  you  to  tempt  a  man  away 
from  money  ?  Who'd  starve  in  a  ditch  with  you  ?  Go 
back  to  your  work  and  leave  that  young  ass  alone.  I 
know  him  better  than  you  do.  Putty — putty — soft 
dough — clay  in  my  hand.  If  I  was  to  tell  him  never 
to  see  your  face  again,  he  never  would.  But  I  shan't 
do  that.  My  willing  slave  and  servant — that's  what 
he  is.  A  good  uncle  to  him  I've  been,  as  he's  told  you 
no  doubt.  He's  got  some  good  points — a  dog's  vir- 
tues.    A  faithful  chap  and  won't  hear  me  abused." 

He  talked  on  and  his  anger  abated.  She  was  going, 
but  he  stopped  her  and  bade  her  listen  still. 

"  You  said  a  bit  back  that  you  had  withstood  the 
slight  men  that  thought  and  spoke  ill  of  me.  Well, 
go  on  doing  it.  Them  as  bend  to  me  find  me  a  very 
good  sort  of  man.  'Tis  onlv  them  I've  broke  here 
and  there  be  rude.  And  the  fault's  theirs.  I  will 
have  my  way.  I'm  stronger  than  all  of  'em  put  to- 
gether, and  harder  and  cleverer.  I  move  while  they 
stand  and  gape;  I  strike  afore  they  put  their  hands 
up;  I  wake  while  they  sleep;  T'm  proud  of  myself, 
you  see.  Like  a  fox  I  am — oftener  heard  about  than 
seen.  Yes — I  set  the  dogs  baying,  but  'twill  take  a 
strong  pack  to  pull  me  down." 

"  You  can't  have  it  all  your  own  way  in  this  world, 
Mr.  Mortimore.     You  must  know  that  very  well." 
"  Depends — all   depends.     'Tis  only  a  question   of 


106  THE  BEACON 

cleverness.  Brains  can  get  anywhere,  and  brains 
and  cash  combined  can  only  be  stopped  by  God  Al- 
mighty." 

He  walked  beside  her. 

"  You  may  come  in  my  quarry  when  you  have  a 
mind  to,  but  don't  you  go  near  that  boat  again,  or 
tempt  my  young  fool  to  do  so." 

She,  however,  was  occupied  with  his  last  speech. 

"  D'you  believe  in  God  ?  I  never  should  have 
thought  it,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Because  I  see  His  hand  busy.  There's 
a  God,  but  He's  not  the  poor,  soft-hearted  God  the 
people  bleat  about  in  church  nowadays.  He's  the  God 
you'll  find  in  the  Old  Book,  not  the  New  one.  Je- 
hovah's my  pattern.  I  try  to  be  like  Him.  And  I 
am  like  Him ;  and  that's  why  they  hate  me.  I  never 
do  nothing  in  my  small  way  He  didn't  do  in  His  big 
one.  He's  the  joker  for  me — strong,  cunning,  full 
of  surprises,  jealous  as  the  grave — never  forgetting. 
He  strikes  like  the  lightning!  He's  rage  alive  when 
He's  crossed.  A  good  friend  to  them  as  keep  faith, 
bu.  what  an  awful  enemy!  Why,  the  devil's  a  worm 
compared  with  Him !  A  strong  tower,  I  tell  you. 
Leave  mercy  and  fogiveness  and  all  that  mess  to 
them  that  can  feel  to  want  it  and  fill  their  feeble  bellies 
with  it.  I'm  a  Jehovah  man,  and  'tis  along  of  that  I 
stand  where  I  do  stand." 

She  was  deeply  interested. 

"  Mr.  Dunning  thinks  much  like  you,  but  he  doesn't 
believe  in  anything." 

He  raged  instantly  and  his  face  blazed. 

"Him!  You  wait  till  you  see.  Between  me  and 
that  man  there's  naught  alike,  and  I'll  wring  your 
neck  if  you  say  there  is.  Believes  nothing,  don't  he? 
Wait  and  see  if  he  don't  believe  something  afore  I've 
done  with  him.  Mark  that — green  girl  as  you  are. 
Him  and  me  can't  breathe  the  same  air  for  ever,  and 
he'll  go  under.     I'm  stronger  than  him.     I've  got  a 


THE  BEACON  107 

better  pattern  to  follow  than  him.  I'll  teach  him  to 
believe  and  shake.  He's  my  play  and  game,  that  man 
— the  only  bit  of  sport  in  my  life.  He's  got  home  on 
me  once  or  twice.  He's  worth  fighting.  But  he'll 
sing  small  and  drop  on  his  knees  yet.  I  shall  handle 
him  when  the  time  comes,  as  I've  handled  other  men. 
He  knows  it  too.  There's  fear  in  him  behind  his 
rough  speech.  I'll  have  him  in  my  hand  presently. 
And  he  knows  it,  I  tell  you.  He's  waiting  to  see 
where  I  shall  strike." 

"  He  can  strike  too." 

"  Can  he  ?  Like  the  fledgling  strikes  when  the  jack- 
daw comes.     I'll  eat  that  man  alive  yet !  " 

"  I  shall  tell  him  that,"  said  Lizzie.  "  The  poor 
chap  ought  to  be  warned." 

They  talked  a  little  longer  and  then  Mortimore  left 
her  with  much  to  think  about.  She  could  not  stamp 
out  of  her  mind  the  sorry  spectacle  cut  by  Charles. 
But  she  found  herself  making  excuses  for  him  and 
she  forgave  him. 

When,  somewhat  shamefaced,  he  entered  the  bar 
that  night  and  began  to  whisper  extenuating  circum- 
stances, she  told  him  that  she  quite  understood  the 
position ;  she  blamed  herself,  not  him,  for  what  had 
happened,  and  she  asked  him  not  to  speak  any  more 
upon  the  subject. 

"  It  calls  for  a  very  strong  pattern  of  man  to  resist 
such  a  person  as  your  uncle,"  she  said. 

"  None  can — not  one,"  he  assured  her,  "  and  in  my 
case  'tis  more  difficult  than  for  another.  He  thinks 
a  lot  of  me  really,  despite  his  scorn,  and  'tis  no  good 
my  angering  him  and  making  him  an  enemy.  My 
future  prosperity  depends  upon  him,  and  I  owe  him 
my  past." 

She  would  hear  no  more  upon  the  subject,  but  she 
thought  very  long  upon  it  when  the  day  was  done. 
Waking  visions  kept  her  sleepless.  She  even  saw  her- 
self pitted  against  '  Iron  '   Mortimore — fighting  Tre- 


108  THE  BEACON 

vail's  battle  for  him,  helping  him  to  higher  independ- 
ence and  self-respect,  lifting  him  above  this  state  of 
subjection.  She  felt  strong  enough  to  do  so,  even  on 
the  day  that  she  had  heard  and  spoke  with  the  fierce 
old  ruffian. 

Here  was  work  worthy  of  her.  She  fancied  that 
she  already  loved  the  man  who  could  bring  her  such  a 
task;  but  she  deceived  herself  a  little.  It  was  thought 
of  the  task  as  much  as  the  man  that  she  loved. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  chronicle  of  Elisabeth  at  this  period  may 
largely  be  confined  to  her  brief  weekly  hours  of 
leisure.  These  advanced  her  life  and  brought  its  possi- 
bilities before  her,  but  the  daily  round  and  task  had 
lost  its  old  salt.  She  did  her  work  perforce,  yet  there 
came  into  her  manner  of  doing  it  something  perfunc- 
tory, a  shadow  of  indifference  and  a  little  abatement 
of  the  old  active  and  willing  spirit.  Her  own  affairs 
seemed  to  intrude  upon  her  labours.  Greater  things 
occupied  her  mind.  The  impatience  that  Dunning  had 
pointed  out  increased.  She  was  taken  to  task  by  Min- 
nie Underhill. 

Lizzie  confessed  her  sins  and  showed  contrition. 
As  the  crucial  point  in  her  relations  with  her  lovers 
approached,  she  experienced  some  fret  of  nerves,  but 
she  strove  to  keep  this  to  herself,  and  succeeded  in  so 
doing  save  from  one  pair  of  eyes.  Dunning  under- 
stood, yet  on  the  occasions  of  seeing  him  she  found 
small  consolation.  He  was  sane  and  salutary  but 
never  sympathetic.  Trevail,  on  the  contrary,  adored 
her,  and  more  than  once  the  expected  word  hung  on 
his  lips.  But  he  was  very  shy ;  he  needed  a  shadow 
of  help  and  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  give  it. 
Again  and  again  she  asked  herself  what  would  be  the 
answer,  and  still  she  did  not  know.  She  felt  the  issue 
must  depend  largely  on  the  .way  they  would  ask.  Yet 
that  was  a  vain  conclusion,  for  she  knew  the  way  they 
would  ask.     She  could  frame  their  proposals. 

Trevail  got  her  to  go  for  a  walk  again  a  month  after 

the  meeting  with  his  uncle.     The  day  was  threatening 

and  he  urged  against  Cosdon. 

109 


110  THE  BEACON 

"  Come  down  in  the  valley  by  the  river,"  he  said. 
"  'Tis  lovely  there  and  I'll  pick  you  some  prim- 
roses." 

But  she  would  not. 

"  Cosdon  or  nothing,"  she  said. 

"  'Tis  offering  for  a  storm." 

"  Let  it,  who  cares  ?  " 

"  If  you  ban't  afeared  for  your  Sunday  clothes — ?  ': 

"  Not  I.     I'm  sick  for  a  breath  of  air." 

"  'Tis  blowing  a  fine  gale  up  there." 

"  So  much  the  better.  I  want  sweet  air  to-day  and 
plenty  of  it." 

"  Where  you  are  the  air  is  always  sweet,"  he  said, 
but  she  was  in  no  mood  for  compliments. 

They  set  out  then  and  he  braced  himself  for  the 
delayed  task.  He  began  by  being  personal,  and  his 
personalities  were  a  failure,  so  he  became  discour- 
aged. 

"  'Tis  curious  that  you  always  seem  like  two  peo- 
ple to  me.  When  you're  in  the  bar,  with  the  counter 
between  us  and  work  going  on,  you're  like  a  queen, 
and  you  even  seem  to  stand  a  foot  taller.  And  you're 
that  brave  and  ready  and  dashing,  and  speak  and 
joke,  and  always  have  the  laugh  with  you,  for  none 
ever  scores  off  you.  In  your  black  you  reign  over 
us  all  and  we're  as  humble  as  beetles  afore  you.  Even 
my  Uncle  Abraham  only  grunts.  Nobody  can  flout 
you  there.  But  when  you  come  out,  you're  so  quiet 
as  a  little  mouse,  and  seem  to  grow  smaller  and  be, 
in  a  sort  of  way,  more  near  to  anybody.  You  can't 
think  what  store  I  set  upon  these  walks.  'Twas  very 
kind  of  you  to  let  me  be  a  friend." 

"Very  kind  of  you  to  offer.  Not  much  of  the 
queen  about  me — in  the  bar  or  out  of  it.  I'm  only  a 
very  stupid  girl.  I'm  in  trouble  too.  Mrs.  Underhill 
have  been  rapping  me  over  the  knuckles,  and  well  I 
deserved  it." 

"  I  won't  believe  that." 


THE  BEACON  111 


«<    V 


Tis  true  however.  She  was  quite  right.  And 
Mr.  Dunning  warned  me  long  ago.  No  self-control — 
I  dash  at  things  so." 

"  'Tis  a  virtue,  not  a  fault.  Such  amazing  energy 
I  never  heard  tell  of  in  another  woman.  Don't  you 
believe  anybody  blames  you.  As  for  Mrs.  Underbill, 
I  should  have  thought  you  couldn't  be  too  energetic 
for  her." 

"  She's  worth  a  thousand  of  me.  Her  mind  is 
balanced.     She's  always  fair." 

He  laughed. 

"  Ask  Tom.     He  don't  think  so,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  he  does — in  his  sensible  moments.  She's 
done  a  lot  for  him  and  he  knows  it." 

"  He  tells  you  that ;  perhaps  he  tells  some  people 
different." 

She  did  not  answer.  They  were  on  the  hill  and  the 
sky  grew  darker. 

"  D'you  know,"  he  said,  "  'tis  a  most  curious  thing 
that  other  girls,  who  are  nothing  to  me,  often  come 
up  in  my  mind's  eye  as  clear  as  pictures — though  I 
don't  want  'em  there  in  the  least.  But  one,  that  I'm 
always  trying  to  see,  never  comes.  She  won't.  She 
tricks  me  you  might  say.  I  can't  even  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  wonderful  eyebrows  unless  they  are  right  be- 
fore my  face." 

"  You  told  me  all  that  the  last  time  we  went  for  a 
walk." 

The  retort  struck  him  into  silence.  Then  he  grum- 
bled. 

"  What  the  deuce  you  can  see  in  this  water-logged 
desert  of  a  hill  I  never  understand.  I'll  swear  there's 
nothing  but  perversity  in  it.  You  must  know  every 
blade  of  grass  up  there  by  now — an  ugly,  black,  bleak, 
lowering  place.  You  can't  pretend  'tis  beautiful  or 
pleasant  to-day." 

"To  me  it  is.  Truth  is  beautiful  to  me.  This  is 
all   stark   truth.     As  true  as  the   wind  that   strikes 


112  THE  BEACON 

through  your  clothes  and  makes  you  shiver.  It  don't 
talk  silliness  about  eyebrows  anyway." 

"  You're  in  a  bad  way  and  I'm  sorry.  What's 
worrying  you  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  but  stood  still  and  panted.  She 
was  unhappy,  and  a  spirit  of  helplessness  and  dark- 
ness held  her.  She  knew  what  was  in  his  mind,  but 
felt  in  no  mood  for  him.  It  was  an  hour  when  his 
gentleness  irritated  her.  She  wished  for  once — for 
the  first  time  in  her  life — that  Reynold  Dunning  could 
take  Trevail's  place  and  apply  some  of  his  caustic  to 
her  bruises.  She  wanted  to  be  hurt.  She  knew  that 
pain  only  could  cast  out  pain.  Her  mood  puzzled  her. 
The  man  looked  at  her  reproachfully  and  sadly. 

"  You're  not  happy,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  to  God 
'twas  in  my  power  to  make  you  so." 

A  tear  dropped  from  her  eye  and  he  saw  it,  and  pre- 
tended he  had  not. 

She  fumbled  for  her  handkerchief  and  he  looked 
away.  She  yearned  for  no  companionship  then  but 
the  Beacon's  self.  That  understood  and  could  min- 
ister to  every  phase  of  feeling.  Her  few  tears  cheered 
her  and  soothed  her  mind.  A  beautiful  spectacle  pre- 
sented itself  close  at  hand  and  she  marked  it  and 
pointed  it  out  to  Trevail. 

A  flash  of  sunlight  breaking  out  of  the  storm- 
clouds  along  the  hill's  shoulder  touched  a  dozen  sheep 
that  fed  together  some  distance  beneath  the  summit 
of  the  Beacon.  They  had  the  light  behind  them  and, 
until  this  transformation,  were  dark  as  the  waste  on 
which  they  gazed;  but  a  sudden  thread  of  gold  now 
flashed  along  each  woolly  back  and  outlined  each 
horned  head,  so  that  every  creature  moved  about  in 
an  aureole  of  pure  sunshine.  The  flock  had  been 
almost  invisible  in  the  gloom  of  the  heath  until  this 
ray  revealed  them ;  now,  outlined  in  delicate  fire,  they 
lent  a  great  beauty  to  the  stormy  hill-side  and  softened 
the  threatening  desolation  with  their  brightness. 


THE  BEACON  118 

"  There,"  said  the  woman,  "  that's  the  kind  of  sur- 
prise Cosdon  always  has  for  me.  Never,  never  do  I 
come  up  but  I  note  some  beautiful  thing  like  that." 

"  Young  Scotch  sheep.  The  best  for  the  Moor — 
those  black-faced  chaps.  They  belong  to  Dunning  I 
believe — yes,  there's  his  '  R.  D.'  on  their  sides." 

"  Don't  you  see  they  look  fine?  " 

"Of  course  I  do — with  the  sun  on  'em ;  but  now  'tis 
gone  behind  the  clouds  again.  I  wish  you'd  turn. 
We  shall  get  a  proper  downpour  in  a  minute." 

"  I  feel  I  want  it.  I  don't  care  for  anything  to-day. 
I  should  like  to  be  struck  by  lightning.  I'm  going  to 
get  to  the  top  anyhow." 

He  restrained  his  impatience  and  went  on. 

"  I'd  never  have  thought  you  could  have  been  so 
rash  and  wilful,"  he  said. 

"  That's  because  you  know  nought  about  me.  If 
Dunning  was  here,  d'you  know  what  he'd  do?  He'd 
take  me  by  the  shoulder  and  order  me  back." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  go,  I  should  hope?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should." 

"  Well,  I  don't  order,  I  only  ask.  I  beg  you  to  come 
down,  Lizzie." 

"  I  never  told  you  that  you  could  call  me  Lizzie." 

"  I'm  going  to,  however,  in  future." 

The  remark  pleased  her  better  than  anything  he 
had  said  that  day ;  but  he  knew  it  not,  and  she  did 
nothing  to  show  him. 

"  Men  are  all  bullies,"  she  said.  "  Miss  Cann's  right 
there.  You  treat  us  like —  Here's  the  rain.  I'm 
going  to  the  top  all  the  same." 

The  wind  woke  in  a  sudden,  furious  squall  and 
sheets  of  grey  rain  swept  them.  For  a  moment  they 
could  not  hear  their  voices;  then  he  heard  her  shout 
to  him. 

"  I  love  this!  I'm  better  alreadv.  Things  that  are 
hard  in  the  valley  are  nought  on  the  hill.  I've  felt 
of  late  there's  not  enough  salt  and  sugar  in  my  life — 


114  THE  BEACON 

too  terrible  tasteless.     But  I  never  feel  that  when  I 
come  up  here." 

She  was  very  wet  now  and  he  felt  troubled  for  her. 

"  Well,  if  you've  had  enough,  we'd  better  go  back. 
'Tisn't  at  all  wise  for  you  to  be  soaked  to  the  skin  in 
this  biting  wind — Lizzie." 

"  Twill  do  us  good,"  she  said.  "  Our  life  is  too 
soft  and  easy.  We  think  of  nought  but  comfort.  We 
take  small  views — like  everybody  else  down  there." 

She  pointed  to  Zeal — a  dim  smudge  in  the  rain  be- 
neath. 

"If  you  want  to  put  that  little  hole  in  its  proper 
place,  come  up  here.     Then  you  see  what  it  is." 

"  Come  back  to  it  anyway.  You  ban't  a  plover 
or  a  pony  to  stand  this  weather.  I  shall  be  feared  to 
death  now  that  you'll  fall  ill.  And  as  to  salt  and 
sugar  in  your  life.  Well,  God  knows  you've  brought 
sugar  and  salt  both  into — " 

"  Look  down  at  the  view,"  she  said.  "  'Tisn't  the 
time  for  silly  talk  about  ourselves.  The  world's  a 
grand  world  to-day  and  I'm  sorry  I  was  cranky. 
'Tis  to  be  out  of  tune  with  everything  to  snap  and 
snarl." 

Far  away  under  the  storm  Exmoor  shone  in  full 
sunshine  like  a  picture  painted  in  gold  and  opal,  soft- 
ened to  unreality  by  distance  and  set  in  a  frame  of 
night.  From  above  the  Severn  Sea  the  sunlight  came 
and  gleamed  gloriously  against  the  edges  of  the 
storm.  All  was  dimmed  by  the  curtains  of  the  rain 
that  swept  between. 

Trevail  now  asserted  himself  and  made  his  com- 
panion descend.  She  was  more  cheerful,  and  he  had 
grown  rather  glum.  She  decided  that  they  should 
visit  Fanny  Cann,  and  he  agreed  to  do  so,  but  reluc- 
tantly. 

"  Much  better  you  go  home  quick  and  keep  warm 
till  you  can  get  out  of  these  clothes." 

"  'Tis  nothing  but  a  drop  of  wet.     I  shall  be  dry 


THE  BEACON  115 

again  in  five  minutes  by  Miss  Cann's  fire.     She  likes 
me.     She'll  give  us  a  cup  of  tea  if  I  ask  her." 

"  She  doesn't  like  me  though." 

"  She  thinks  better  of  you  than  most  men.  She's 
talked  to  me  about  you." 

He  was  interested. 

"  I'd  dearly  liked  to  hear  what  she  said." 

Lizzie  laughed. 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  she  answered.  "  But  all  the 
same,  as  men  have  got  to  be,  she'd  sooner  have  them 
in  your  pattern  than — some." 

"Why's  that?" 

"  You  ask  her." 

They  made  haste  down  the  hill  and  were  quickly  at 
Fanny  Cann's.  She  rated  them  for  their  folly  in  ven- 
turing on  the  hill  in  such  weather,  and  Elisabeth  took 
the  blame. 

'Twas  all  my  fault.     I  wanted  a  breath  of  air. 
That  stuffy  it  is  in  the  valley  sometimes." 

"  Yes,  stuffy  place  and  stuffy  opinions.  You  get 
to  the  fire,  Lizzie,  and  you  take  off  your  coat  and  put 
near  enough  to  catch  heat,  Charles.  I'll  brew  the  tea 
in  a  minute.  'Tisn't  often  a  man  comes  into  this 
house,  but  since  Lizzie  here  be  daft  enough  to  have 
one  of  you  for  her  friend,  I'll  make  you  welcome  for 
once  in  a  way." 

"  And  thank  you,  I'm  sure.  I  feel  the  compli- 
ment." 

"  I  was  telling  Mr.  Trevail  that  you  reckon  he's  a 
head  and  shoulders  above  many  men,  Miss  Cann. 
And  he  asked  me  why,  and  I  told  him  that  you  best 
know." 

"  You  will  have  your  fun — you  sly  girl !  " 

"  Twas  only  truth." 

'  Bad's  the  best  of  'em.  Charlie  have  got  fewer 
faults  than  most.  But  I  daresay  'tis  only  because  he 
hides  'em  better." 

'  I    haven't    got    any    faults    at    all,"    declared    the 


116  THE  BEACON 

farmer,  boldly.  '  That  is,  no  faults  that  you  ought 
to  count  faults.  I  think  the  world  of  your  sex,  and 
would  serve  'em  any  day  of  the  week." 

"  Your  virtue  isn't  that.  It  lies  in  the  fact  that 
you're  fairly  easy  to  be  turned  and  twisted.  The 
more  woman  can  do  with  men,  the  better  for  the 
nation;  and  if  the  world  was  full  of  your  sort,  we 
should  be  where  we  ought  to  be." 

He  considered  this. 

"  You  mean  I  couldn't  refuse  you  anything.  Be 
that  sense  in  me  or  weakness  ?  " 

"  According  to  the  point  of  view,"  answered  Miss 
Cann.  "  I  say  'tis  sense,  and  if  you  was  married  to 
some  women  I  could  name,  your  happiness  would  de- 
pend upon  your  easiness.  I  speak  of  strong  women. 
But  if  you  was  married  to  a  weak  one,  then  the  pair 
of  you  would  go  to  the  wall.  If  I  had  my  way,  no 
woman  should  be  married  that  wasn't  strong  enough 
to  rule  her  husband.  Then,  in  a  generation  or  two, 
we  should  be  reigning." 

"  And  for  the  same  reason,  I  suppose,  you  wouldn't 
let  the  strong  man  marry?  " 

"  Not  if  I  could  help  it,"  she  confessed.  "  But  who 
can?  They  always  go  for  the  soft,  cow-like  women, 
and  so  the  female  race  is  kept  under." 

They  chatted  and  chaffed.  Mr.  Trevail  argued  for 
reciprocity,  and  declared  that  the  man-like  woman  and 
the  woman-like  man  were  equally  objectionable. 

They  departed  presently,  and  though  the  time  and 
opportunity  had  slipped  for  the  great  question,  he  put 
a  lesser  one  to  Lizzie  as  they  returned  home.  The 
rain  was  ended,  and  the  dusk  was  clear  when  they  set 
off  for  Zeal.  The  earth-born  lights  glittered  and 
twinkled  beneath  them. 

"Will  you  do  me  a  large  favour?'  he  asked. 
"  Twill  cost  you  nothing  and  be  a  very  great  joy  to 


me." 


She  thought  he  was  going  to  beg  for  a  kiss  and  felt 


THE  BEACON  117 

in  a  mood  to  grant  it  now.  The  cloud  had  swept  off 
her  and  she  was  happy.  He  had  pleased  her  during 
the  last  two  hours.  She  loved  him  and  she  knew  it. 
There  was  a  mixture  of  masculinity  and  childish  help- 
lessness in  him  that  cried  out  to  her.  If  he  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him  at  that  moment  she  would  have 
agreed  to  do  so. 

"  Would  you  mind  calling  me  '  Charlie  '  ?  I  should 
feel  very  proud  and  flattered  if  you  could  do  so. 
'Twould  show  that  you — well — I  can't  say  exactly 
what  it  would  mean  to  me,  but  it  would  mean  a  lot." 

"  Of  course  I  will  if  you  like." 

"  Thank  you  ever  so  much.  It  means  a  sort  of 
closeness.  It  means — it  points — but  I'll  say  no  more 
to-night.  You've  pleased  me  and  made  me  joyful 
somehow  to-day.  And  you've  forgiven  me  for  calling 
you  '  Lizzie  '  so  bold  ?  " 

"  Why  ever  should  I  mind  ?  'Tis  always  under- 
stood if  a  girl's  got  a  friend,  he  does  it." 

"  I  should  like  to  invent  a  beautiful,  secret  name  for 
you  that  only  you  and  me  know." 

She  laughed  at  that. 

"  You're  not  clever  enough,  I  expect." 

"Give  me  leave  to  try  then?  Now,  I'll  lie  awake 
all  night  seeing  what  I  can  hit  upon." 

He  left  her  at  the  top  of  the  hill  that  descended  into 
the  valley,  and  went  his  way,  while  she  returned  to 
the  inn. 

They  met  again  that  evening,  however,  for  Trevail 
called  to  drink  during  the  hours  of  company  between 
eight  and  ten.  He  came  explicitly  to  learn  whether 
she  was  the  worse  for  her  wetting.  In  his  heart  he 
was  there  to  hear  her  call  him  '  Charlie  '  before  other 
men.  Chance  brought  a  good  audience  and  among 
them  his  rival.  There  were  present  Lucky  Madders, 
the  lime  burner,  Jack  Jope,  the  shoemaker  and  father, 
half  a  dozen  miners  from  Red  Wheal.  Ned  Knap- 
man,  a  local  sportsman  with   a  doubtful  reputation, 


118  THE  BEACON 

and  Mr.  Mortimore,  who  sat  in  his  usual  corner  and 
preserved  his  usual  silence. 

Tom  Underhill  was  helping  Lizzie  in  the  bar,  and 
the  place  hummed  with  noise  and  reeked  with  the 
smells  of  beer  and  tobacco. 

To  this  throng  entered  Charles  Trevail.  Chance 
brought  him  beside  Lucky,  who  was  talking  to  a  miner. 

"  I'll  back  limestone  against  your  copper,  my  son," 
he  declared.  "  To  our  quarry  you  know  where  you 
are  and  what  you  be  doing;  in  your  work,  you  can't 
tell  one  nor  t'other.  'Tis  all  a  speculation,  and  though 
you  and  your  mates  may  be  pleased  and  get  your 
money  very  regular,  I'd  like  to  hear  the  opinion  of  the 
adventurers  in  the  mine.     What  do  they  get?" 

"  Mostly  nought,"  answered  Mr.  Jope.  "  But  'tis 
a  very  successful  sort  of  mine — for  everybody  else. 
I  haven't  heard  the  'venturers  be  drawing  anything; 
but  after  all,  they  ban't  everybody,  and  they've  got 
the  pleasure  of  knowing  they  be  keeping  a  lot  of  men 
busy  and  a  lot  of  women  and  children  contented." 

"  There's  a  rumour  of  a  dividender,"  said  Mr.  Knap- 
man. 

"  So  there  have  been  any  time  this  five  year. 
There's  also  a  rumour  that  the  sharers  be  getting  a 
thought  weary  of  waiting.  But  I  hope  they  ban't  im- 
patient people.  'Twould  be  a  cruel  pity  if  the  place 
was  shut  down." 

"  Have  no  fear,"  said  Mortimore,  suddenly.  "  If 
they  shut  it,  'twill  only  be  for  a  time.  Where  there's 
mines,  there's  always  fools  to  venture  in  'em,  and 
wise  men  to  pick  up  their  money.  Let  this  bitten  lot 
get  clear,  and  in  a  year  or  two  'twill  all  begin  over 
again.     I  know." 

The  vicissitudes  of  the  enterprise  occupied  other 
tongues.     Then  Trevail  changed  the  subject. 

"  I  must  congratulate  you,  Tom,"  he  said.  "  Only 
heard  the  great  news  to-day.  So  you're  to  be  a 
father." 


THE  BEACON  119 

Underhill  nodded. 

"Tis  so.     And  thank  you." 

"  Here's  good  luck  I'm  sure.  Give  me  a  pint, 
please,  Lizzie." 

Others  drank  to  the  fortune  of  the  publican's  com- 
ing first-born. 

Neddy  Knapman  ventured  on  a  sly  jest  with  Tom. 

"  There  will  be  a  little  peace  about  the  house  now — 
eh?" 

But  Underhill  made  no  answer,  though  he  smiled. 
Married  life  had  changed  him.  He  had  become  a 
more  considerable  person  than  of  old,  and  a  less  happy 
one. 

"  Here's  your  drink — Charlie." 

Trevail's  heart  jumped  as  she  spoke,  for  the  words 
were  uttered  with  her  usual  clearness  and  all  heard 
them.  Above  all  one  had  just  entered,  and  he,  too, 
had  marked  the  intimate  appellation.  Dunning  most 
certainly  heard,  and  a  moment  or  two  later  Lizzie 
uttered  the  name  in  asking  her  lover  for  his  money. 
But  the  elder  man  took  no  notice  and  presently  ad- 
dressed her. 

"You  wanted  to  see  a  trout  caught,  didn't  you? 
Well,  I  shall  be  fishing  in  Blackaton  Brook  this  week, 
and  can  fit  in  the  time  if  you'll  tell  me  when  you're 
free." 

"  I've  changed  my  mind,"  she  said. 

"  I  want  you  to  come,  however,  and  you  will, 
please." 

Mr.  Knapman  intervened. 

"  You  come  along  with  me,  miss,  and  I'll  show  you 
how  to  catch  a  trout." 

"  Shut  up,  Ned,  and  get  out  of  the  way,"  said  Dun- 
ning.    "  I'm  talking  to  her." 

"  Talking  to  her  as  if  she  was  a  plough-boy,"  said 
Trevail. 

All  expected  a  collision,  and  even  Mortimore  bent 
forward.     To  hear  his  nephew  beard   Dunning  thus 


120  THE  BEACON 

was  good  to  him.  But  nothing  came  of  the  challenge. 
Apparently  the  master  of  Clannaboro'  had  not  heard 
it.  He  turned  to  Lizzie  again,  and  it  seemed  his 
rival's  reproof  bore  fruit. 

"  You  know  my  rough,  harsh  way,  and  what's  under 
it,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  only  she  could  hear.  "  Will 
you  come?     I  should  think  it  a  favour." 

But  her  mind  was  full  of  the  other  man.  She  felt 
she  owed  him  something. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that,"  she  said.  "  What  can 
I  serve  you,  Mr.  Dunning?  " 

"  Half  a  pint  of  beer." 

She  drew  it  and  he  paid  for  it  and  drank  it. 

He  next  talked  to  Ned  Knapman  for  a  few  mo- 
ments on  the  subject  of  fishing.  Trevail  he  entirely 
ignored  until  about  to  depart.  Then  he  walked  up 
to  Mortimore  and  addressed  the  master  of  the 
quarry. 

'  I  won't  speak  to  yonder  babbling,  red-faced  chap, 
your  nephew,  just  now,  because  he's  a  bit  above  him- 
self and  'twouldn't  be  fair,  but  you  know  me  better 
than  he  does  and  you  know  my  ways.  You  and  me 
understand  and  can  give  hard  knocks  and  take  'em. 
He  ban't  built  for  hard  knocks,  so  he'll  be  wiser  not 
to  court  'em.  But  if  he  wants  a  quarrel,  he's  wel- 
come. Only  tell  him  not  to  be  rude  to  me  again 
afore  yonder  woman.  It  won't  pay  him.  I'm  a  fair 
fighter,  and  I  don't  want  to  put  that  man  in  the  saw- 
dust of  the  bar  under  her  eyes,  because  she's  the  sort 
would  never  forget  that  sight.  But  if  he  wants  a  turn 
up,  he  can  always  find  me  at  Clannaboro'." 

"  I  see,"  said  Mortimore,  "  but  you  forget  I'm  his 
side,  Reynold  Dunning." 

"  Are  you  ?  I  didn't  know  that.  Well,  you  and  me 
never  waste  words,  and  we  never  leave  each  other  in 
doubt  of  our  meaning.  Sorry  you  haven't  got  a  bet- 
ter man  to  second.  But  I  daresay  he  suits  you  all 
right.     You  couldn't  pull  long  with  any  first-rate  man 


THE  BEACON  121 

— too    strong    for   that.     You    must    rule.     And    so 
must  I." 

"  You  want  that  woman,"  said  Mortimore.  "  And 
so  does  my  chap.  That's  how  it  stands.  More 
damned  fools  the  pair  of  you.  I  can  understand  him, 
but  you — I'm  surprised!  Not  that  she  have  much 
use  for  you  seemingly." 

"  Women,  or  quarries,  or  our  neighbour's  goods — 
we  all  want  something  and  must  be  after  something. 
'Tis  the  salt  of  life,  as  none  know  better  than  you. 
Talking  of  quarries,  you'll  have  trouble  presently, 
you're  wasting  money  there.  I'm  astonished  you  don't 
see  it." 

"  You  liar !  What  do  you  know  about  it  that  I 
don't?" 

"  Perhaps  you'll  live  to  find  out.  Then  you'll 
dance  a  fine  bear's  dance  to  mark  the  fool  you  was. 
But  you'll  be  too  late  then — when  I  get  the  quarry." 

Having  thus  assumed  the  offensive  and  left  '  Iron  ' 
Mortimore  in  a  rage,  Dunning  went  out.  His  enemy 
was  roaring,  and  Underhill  was  trying  to  silence  him. 

"  Whatever's  amiss?  Be  your  drink  wrong?"  he 
cried  from  behind  the  bar. 

"  That  man — that  beast !  I'll  have  his  eyes  yet,  and 
his  farm  and  everything!  To  dare — such  as  him 
oughtn't  to  be  allowed  inside  your  bar,  or  any  decent 
man's  house." 

"  He's    vexed    you    proper,    I    see,"    said    Lucky. 
■  Why,  now  I  should  never  have  thought  any  living 
man  could  do  it." 

"  The  quarry — the  quarry — he  dared — "  Then  the 
miser  got  up  and  departed  without  more  speech. 

"Looks  as  if  he'd  like  to  knock  Dunning  on  the 
head,"  declared  Jope. 

"  No  great  loss  if  he  did,"  answered  a  miner;  "  for 
a  hatefuller  pattern  don't  hang  out  in  these  parts.  I'd 
sooner  work  for  Mortimore  than  him." 

The  defects  of  the  two  men  were  contrasted,  and 


122  THE  BEACON 

Trevail  did  not  hesitate  to  take  his  uncle's  side.  He 
hardly  realized  the  relation  in  which  Dunning  stood 
to  him  respecting  Elisabeth  Densham;  otherwise  he 
had  not  perhaps  abused  the  other  farmer  so  roundly. 
The  woman  liked  him  little  for  his  attitude  and  pres- 
ently silenced  him  by  praising  Dunning.  Thus  a  good 
day  ended  badly  for  him,  and  he  left  her  conscious 
that  his  tongue  had  destroyed  some  of  the  precious 
work  of  the  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XII 

LIZZIE  waited  in  the  quarry  for  Charles  Trevail 
and  he  did  not  come.  The  day  was  Saturday, 
and  the  hour  half-past  three.  She  had  the  place  to 
herself,  and  sitting  on  the  high  ground  above  the 
workings  looked  across  at  the  sunny  cliffs  and  fol- 
lowed her  fancy.  Sometimes  she  whistled  and  woke 
echo,  and  pictured  the  little  spirits  of  the  place  peeping 
from  clefts  and  ledges  to  listen ;  once  she  uttered  a 
low  cry  and  heard  the  note  come  back  changed  and 
saddened,  like  a  wail  of  distress.  As  her  custom  was 
upon  the  Moor,  she  wove  stories  out  of  the  gaping  rift 
in  the  earth;  she  saw  faces  in  the  ragged  outlines  of 
the  quarry  and  imagined  monsters  chained  there  in 
the  marble,  imprisoned  until  doom,  gazing  with  im- 
potent malice  and  frustrated  power  upon  the  pigmy 
race  of  men.  She  found  a  likeness,  where  accidents 
of  frost  and  flood  had  flung  upon  the  cliff  a  gigantic 
bas-relief  of  '  Iron '  Mortimore.  The  discovery  de- 
lighted her,  and  she  longed  to  show  it  to  the  man  him- 
self. 

He  was  fishing  in  his  pond,  and  sat  there  motionless 
on  the  dark  water  in  his  boat.  Round  about,  the 
woods  were  bursting  with  spring  green,  for  winter 
was  gone,  and  in  the  valleys  sap  and  scent  were  rising 
to  the  sunshine  of  April. 

Lizzie  went  down  to  the  water  presently. 

"  I've  found  the  living  image  of  you  on  a  great  rock 
in  the  quarry,  Mr.  Mortimore.  Do  come  and  see  it," 
she  cried  to  him. 

But  he  waved  her  away. 

"  Be  gone,  you  lazy  wench,"  he  said. 

123 


124  THE   BEACON 

"  Lazy!  "  she  answered  indignantly.  "  What  next? 
You  know  better  than  that,  and  so  does  everybody." 

"  Why  the  hell  don't  you  marry  him  and  have  done 
with  it?  "  shouted  Mortimore.  "  I'm  sick  of  this  fool- 
ing. Take  him  or  leave  him.  He's  not  worth  a  curse 
to  any  man  since  you  came  here.  I'll  turn  him  out  of 
the  farm  if  it  goes  on  much  longer." 

This  onslaught  effectually  silenced  Elisabeth. 
Mortimore  bawled  from  the  middle  of  the  tarn  and 
might  have  been  heard  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off.  She 
made  no  answer,  but  fled  back  to  the  quarry  blushing 
and  indignant. 

"  I  should  much  like  to  know  how  a  woman's  going 
to  take  a  man  before  he  asks  her  to,"  she  thought. 
The  incident  ruffled  her  not  a  little,  and  she  was  in  a 
gloomy  mood  when  Trevail  presently  appeared,  has- 
tening down  the  valley  from  his  farm. 

She  had  grown  to  care  much  for  this  man  now,  be- 
cause she  knew  that  not  only  did  he  love  her,  but  he 
was  also  influenced  by  her.  He  kept  her  alternating 
between  moods  of  hope  and  despair.  She  hoped  and 
was  glad  when  he  approved  her  sentiments,  and  de- 
clared that  he  won  personal  profit  from  them;  she 
hoped  when  he  told  her  that  he  had  availed  himself 
of  her  advice  in  sundry  particulars,  and  was  prosper- 
ing in  mind  as  a  result  of  so  doing.  And  she  de- 
spaired sometimes  before  his  own  sentiments  and 
slight  ambitions  and  mean  contentment.  Above  all 
she  hated  his  subservient  attitude  to  his  uncle,  and 
the  spirit  he  displayed  before  the  older  man's  stronger 
will  and  ferocious  domination.  He  could  not  feel  the 
tyranny  and  he  would  not  see  the  figure  that  he  cut 
under  it.  He  excused  all  on  the  plea  of  expediency, 
and  explained  at  length  that  it  was  policy  and  not 
cowardice  that  directed  his  conduct. 

The  woman  who  loved  him  was  accordingly  elated 
and  cast  down.     '  The  mixture  that  is  not  shaken, 


THE  BEACON  125 

rots,'  declared  Heraclitus,  and  though  she  knew  not 
the  Weeping  Philosopher  or  his  works,  Elisabeth  ap- 
preciated this  truth,  and  felt  that  an  inherent  lethargy 
and  leaning  to  all  things  easy  and  comfortable  was 
the  danger  for  Trevail.  Unconsciously  she  knew  it. 
By  instinct  and  intuition,  not  through  any  deliberate 
process  of  reasoning  came  the  enunciation.  She 
strove  therefore  very  energetically  to  shake  him  up 
and  shake  him  out  of  this  lentor,  this  natural  inertia 
and  indolence  of  mind  and  body.  Often  she  succeeded 
and  often  she  failed. 

To-day  he  was  preoccupied  and  troubled  about  his 
concerns.  He  came  to  her  for  rest  and  peace,  help 
and  distraction.  But  she  was  out  of  tune  herself. 
She  made  one  effort  to  be  cheerful  and  entertaining, 
and  it  failed. 

"  Come  and  see  your  uncle  on  the  cliff,"  she  said. 
"  I've  found  his  likeness  large  over  the  quarry.  I'll 
show  it  to  you." 

But  the  sun  had  moved  on  his  way,  and  the  image 
of  mingled  rock  and  shadow  was  gone.  Trevail  be- 
gan to  grumble  about  the  tenant  of  the  quarry  and 
she  cut  him  short. 

"  Don't  talk  about  him.  'Tis  always  the  same. 
One  day  you're  smarting  from  him  and  feel  like  any 
other  self-respecting  man  would;  the  next  you  go 
under  and  let  him  order  you  about  like  a  dog." 

He  showed  impatience. 

"  How  often  are  you  going  to  tell  me  that?  Can't 
you  live  and  let  live,  Lizzie?  We're  not  all  made  on 
your  pattern,  and  we're  not  all  so  unreasonable  for 
that  matter.  To  tell  a  man  to  quarrel  with  his  own 
bread-and-butter  is  rather  silly  in  my  opinion — not 
worthy  of  any  sense  anyway." 

"  You  think  everything's  silly  that  doesn't  fit  in 
with  your  opinions,"  she  said.  "  1  hate  your  uncle, 
and  so  does  everybody  else.     All  the  same  1   admire 


126  THE  BEACON 

him  for  one  thing,  and  that's  his  power  of  getting  his 
own  way.  But  what  I  hate  most  of  all  is  his  opinion 
of  you." 

The  man's  pride  was  touched. 

"  If  you're  going  to  talk  like  that,  I'll  leave  you," 
he  answered.  "  Never  was  heard  such  nonsense. 
What  do  you  know  about  his  opinion  of  me  ?  Should 
I  be  where  I  am,  or  what  I  am  to  him,  if  he  felt  for 
me — what  you  seem  to  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  Oh ! 
Lizzie,  don't  say  things  like  that.  You  forget  them 
afterwards,  but  I  don't.  They  make  me  feel  bad. 
You  know  what  I  think  of  your  sense,  but  what's  the 
use  of  being — of  being  what  we  are  to  each  other  if 
you're  going  to  get  cross  every  time  we  have  a  dif- 
ference of  opinion?  I  don't  thing  everything  silly 
that  doesn't  fit  in  with  my  views.  I  allow  other  peo- 
ple to  think  as  they  please." 

"  No,  you  don't  then — not  me  anyway.  You  know 
very  well  how  you  hate  my  liking  for  the  Beacon. 
And  when  I  humour  you,  and  come  down  here  instead, 
this  is  all  I  get  for  it." 

"  You  began  it  all  the  same.  Of  course  you  puzzle 
me  sometimes.  You  wouldn't  be  a  woman  if  you 
didn't.  But  I'm  always  ready  to  learn.  I  grant  I 
don't  quite  see  what  fun  you  get  out  of  Cosdon. 
Then,  why  don't  you  explain  ?  You  can't  say  I'm  not 
a  good  listener.  You  tell  me  the  Beacon  means  a  lot 
to  you.     Well,  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you — and  you  wouldn't  understand  if 
I  could." 

"  I  know  you  think  I'm  a  fool,  but  where  you're 
concerned  my  brains  move  pretty  quick.  And  what 
you  won't  tell  me — what  you  think  I  can't  understand, 
I'll  tell  you.  I  hate  you  to  go  up  there,  and  though 
you  imagine  it  does  you  good,  I  know  it  does  you 
harm.  It  puts  your  mind  out  of  gear,  and  makes  you 
see  things  different  from  what  they  are.  It  makes  you 
contemptuous  and  impatient,  and  it  makes  you  out  of 


THE  BEACON  127 

sympathy  with  people  and  your  work  and  everything. 
Yes,  I  hate  you  to  go  up  there." 

"Then  I'll  go  oftener,"  she  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It  isn't  for  me  to  preach  to  you.  You  do  the  preach- 
ing always,  and  God  knows  I've  taken  to  heart  many 
a  thing  you've  said  to  me;  but,  after  all,  I've  got  eyes 
in  my  head  if  I  haven't  got  brains  in  it,  and — and 
— well,  it  isn't  the  time  to  say  what  you  are  to  me. 
But  I'm  set  on  your  well-being  and  I  want  nought 
so  much  as  your  happiness.  Cosdon  don't  make  you 
happy;  it  makes  you  miserable  and  out  of  conceit 
with  things  as  they  are.     You  know  that." 

"  Yes,  I  do.  And  that's  why  I  go  there — to 
breathe  and  see  and  look  down  and  make  things  take 
their  proper  sizes.  Mr.  Dunning  says  the  way  to  judge 
of  people  is  to  see  what  they  seek  or  shun  in  the 
world ;  and  if  you  see  them  running  after  small  things, 
then  you  know  they're  small-minded;  and  Cosdon 
makes  everything  small.  And  I  will  be  out  of  conceit 
with  small  things,  even  though  I  have  got  to  live  a 
small  life  myself.  You're  small-minded,  and  you 
know  it." 

"  Say  so  and  think  so,  then.  And  go  to  Dunning 
and  see  what  he  is  and  what  he  seeks  and  shuns. 
You  hate  my  uncle,  just  because  he's  my  uncle,  I  sup- 
pose, and  then  you  turn  to  a  man  like  Reynold  Dun- 
ning, who's  only  my  uncle  over  again  without  his 
cleverness,  and  pretend  you  like  him.  You'd  better 
go  and  live  on  Cosdon  I  should  think.  There's  no 
reason  in  you  to-day  and  you've  no  right  to  talk  to 
me  so." 

"  Why  do  you  stand  it  then  ?  Why  don't  you  go 
away  ?  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  hate  this  hole. 
Let  me  clear  out  and  get  up  there! '' 

She  pointed  where  the  Beacon  towered  to  the  west 
of  them.  It  swept  in  a  right  arc,  broken  at  the  sum- 
mit by  a  flat  cloud  full  of  sunshine.     The  sides  were 


128  THE  BEACON 

dark  by  contrast;  then  in  the  middle-distance  of  the 
scene  rose  the  rounded  heads  of  elms,  still  rosy  with 
their  last  inflorescence;  and  among  them  stood  the 
tower  of  Tawton  church. 

"  Go  where  you  please.  I'm  not  company  for  such 
a  high  and  mighty  woman  as  you.  I'll  get  back  to 
work." 

"  Work— that's  all  you  think  of." 

"  You  know  better  than  that.  I'm  sorry — I'm  cruel 
sorry  things  have  fallen  awry  to-day.  'Tis  all  my 
fault.     Good-bye." 

He  took  off  his  cap  and  left  her.  She  watched  him 
go  but  did  not  call  him  back.  She  was  in  a  hard 
mood  and  could  only  see  his  faults.  Then,  with  his 
departure,  her  attitude  changed  and  she  forgave  him 
and  blamed  herself.  Who  was  she  to  take  such  a 
stand  ?  Who  was  she  to  '  preach  '  to  him  ?  He  had 
not  used  the  word  offensively;  yet  it  carried  great 
offence  to  her  ear.  She  knew  his  patience  with  her 
was  lovely  and  beautiful,  but  she  hated  it  to-day. 
"  Why  did  he  say  the  fault  was  his  and  that  he  was 
sorry?"  she  asked  herself.  It  was  this  humility  and 
meekness  that  made  her  despair.  She  wanted  impossi- 
bilities after  the  universal  way.  She  desired  the  man 
to  be  strong  and  still  easily  influenced.  She  disliked 
the  defects  of  his  qualities.  She  did  not  object  to  his 
humility  before  her,  but  she  resented  his  humility  be- 
fore others.  To  wed  a  humble  man  was  a  pleasant 
thought  to  her ;  but  he  must  not  take  his  humility  out- 
side his  own  door.  She  had  a  vague  ideal  of  the 
knight  of  romance,  a  lamb  with  his  lady,  a  lion  in  the 
world. 

And  now  there  came  to  her  as  she  sat  on  above  the 
quarry,  not  a  lion,  but  him  folk  called  '  the  bear '  of 
Clannaboro'.  He  had  been  standing  for  some  time 
regarding  the  quarry  from  the  larch  woods  that  rose 
on  the  hills  above  it.     Unseen,  he  had  pursued  his 


THE  BEACON  129 

own  thoughts  respecting  the  place,  and  then,  ignorant 
that  Mortimore  was  fishing  in  his  private  preserve, 
Dunning  had  gone  down  and  inspected  the  works. 
At  the  kilns  he  met  and  spoke  with  Lucky,  who  never 
took  a  half-holiday  and  might  be  seen,  six  days  out 
of  every  seven,  like  a  yellow  beetle  crawling  about  the 
unsleeping  fire. 

And  now  Dunning,  back  again  at  the  edge  of  the 
lofty  woods  and  about  to  depart,  caught  sight  of  Elisa- 
beth alone,  growled  a  blessing  on  his  luck  and  de- 
scended to  her. 

"  Something  told  me  I  was  going  to  see  you  to-day," 
he  said.  "  But  I  don't  believe  in  that  nonsense,  so  I 
just  turned  my  back  on  it  and  went  my  way.  Yet  it 
had  to  be." 

"  You     didn't     count     to     find     me     here,     how- 


ever 
<< 


No,  I  did  not.  If  I'd  given  heed  to  the  voice  I'd 
have  gone  aloft." 

He  pointed  to  the  Beacon.  Then  he  sat  down  on 
a  stone  not  far  from  her. 

She  did  not  speak  and  the  listlessness  following  her 
quarrel  was  upon  her.  He  observed  her  mood,  how- 
ever, and  seemed  more  cheerful  than  usual. 

"  Why  for  are  you  here?  "  he  asked,  searching  her 
face. 

"  Why  are  you  here  for  that  matter  ?  " 

"  Business.  I'm  interested  in  this  place  and  shall 
be  more  so  some  day.  You  can  keep  secrets  ?  Well, 
I  mean  to  get  the  quarry  away  from  '  Iron  '  Mortimore 
presently." 

"  You'll  never  do  that.  He  thinks  more  of  it  than 
anything  in  the  world." 

"  We  shall  see.  I've  had  a  few  hard  knocks  from 
him.  He's  one  of  the  fighting  sort,  and  any  weapon 
be  good  enough  for  his  hand.  I  can't  lie;  if  I  could 
I  should  be  the  equal  of  him.     But  in  the  matter  of 


130  THE   BEACON 

craft  he  beats  me.  However,  there's  other  ways  to 
best  him.  And  the  first  way  is  not  to  be  frightened 
of  the  man.     Everybody  is  but  me." 

"  I'm  not  and  he  knows  it." 

"  No,  you're  not,  but  you're  a  woman.  He  don't 
take  them  seriously." 

"  More  do  you.' 

He  did  not  answer  but  repeated  his  former  ques- 
tion. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here — all  alone,  too  ?  ': 

"  Thinking.  I  come  here  sometimes,  because 
Charlie  Trevail  likes  it." 

"  Does  he?  I  should  have  thought  'twas  too  harsh 
and  strange  for  him.  I  like  it  myself,  therefore  'tis 
curious  that  he  should." 

"You  think  you're  different  from  everybody  else." 

"  I  know  I  am — so  do  you.  Different  from  him 
— in  everything  but  one  thing." 

"What  might  that  be?" 

"You  know." 

She  did  not  speak ;  then  he  came  nearer  to  her. 

"  What  are  you  ambitious  for?  "  he  asked.  "  What 
is  it  you  want?  You've  taught  me  a  bit  here  and 
there  since  I  knew  you.  Yes,  you  have.  You're  the 
most  interesting  creature  that  ever  I  met.  And  I 
often  catch  you  in  my  thoughts.  But  what  d'you 
want?  D'you  want  to  be  the  stem  of  a  man's  flower; 
or  do  you  want  the  man  to  be  the  stem  to  your  flower  ? 
D'you  want  to  shine  like  the  moon,  with  borrowed 
light,  or  d'you  you  want  to  shine  on  your  own?  ': 

She  had  often  asked  herself  the  same  question. 

"  I'd  like  to  help  a  man.  I'd  like  to  come  to  be  so 
much  to  him  that  he  put  me  before  all  else  in  his  life. 
But  so  long  as  he  puts  me  first  and  gave  me  all  credit, 
and  knew  what  I  was  good  for,  I  shouldn't  care  what 
anybody  else  thought.  I'd  be  the  stem  to  his  flower, 
and  proud  to  be,  so  long  as  he  knew  it  and  felt  it.     I 


THE   BEACON  131 

wouldn't  marry  a  man  that  wouldn't  be  the  better  for 
marrying  me." 

"  You  ban't  ambitious  for  yourself  then?  ,: 

"  Yes,  I  am.  I'm  ambitious  to  lift  a  man  higher 
than  he  could  get  without  me.  The  love  that  leaves  a 
man  as  it  finds  him  is  nought.  My  love,  if  'tis  any 
worth,  should  lift  him  so  that  he'd  never  be  the  same 
man  after,  and  never  walk  so  humble  or  think  so 
humble  or  do  so  humble  again  after  once  he'd  wedded 
me. 

He  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of  Trevail. 

"  Could  you  do  all  that  for  a  man?  " 

"  Yes,  and  he'd  do  the  like  for  me.  I'm  not  proud 
of  my  strength.  Tis  weakness  compared  to  a  man's 
strength.  If  I  married  a  man,  I  should  look  to  him 
to  do  the  man's  part." 

"Ah!  I'm  glad  you  feel  that.  'Twould  be  weary 
work  having  to  do  all.  A  strong  man  is  a  fine  thing 
in  a  woman's  life — a  man  that  never  flinches,  never 
changes,  never  falters.  But  you  can't  lift  up  each 
other,  can  you?  Tell  me.  Surely  one's  got  to  hold 
the  reins  from  the  start.  He  or  she  must  be  the  whip 
hand.     Both  can't  have  it.     It  isn't  possible." 

"  Then  drop  the  whip  and  do  without  it.  Who 
talks  of  whips  nowadays?  I  say  they  can  lift  each 
other." 

"  Tisn't  possible." 

"  I'd  make  it  possible,"  she  said.  "  The  first  thing 
is  a  love  large  enough.  You  remember  we  spoke  of 
that  long  ago.  If  man  and  woman  both  love  enough, 
they  can  do  miracles." 

"  Love  that  size  is  a  miracle.  You  hear  of  it,  but 
you  never  see  it." 

"Those  that  can  picture  it  can  feel  it,"  she  an- 
swered, and  the  reply  loosened  his  spirit. 

"By  God!  you're  one  in  ten  thousand.  There's 
none  like  you  and  never  was!     Too  good — too  good — 


132  THE  BEACON 

a  million  times  too  good  for  any  that  ever  lived.  Not 
worthy  to  black  your  shoes,  none  of  us.  I'll  think 
better  of  all  women  for  knowing  you.  I'll  bear  my- 
self more  kindly  to  all  women  for  knowing  you.  And 
if  you  wait  for  the  man  that's  worthy  of  you,  you'll 
die  a  maid." 

She  stared  at  him,  but  a  flush  of  joy  touched  her 
heart.  Grapes  from  a  thorn  had  been  a  lesser  won- 
der than  such  sudden  splendid  fruit  of  praise  from 
Dunning. 

"What's  come  over  you?"  she  asked  blankly,  and 
her  eyes  looked  widely  upon  him. 

"  You've  come  over  me,"  he  answered.  "  You've 
done  what  nothing  but  you  could  have  done.  You've 
opened  my  eyes  to  the  thing  that's  better  worth  than 
anything  else  in  this  whole  blackguard  world.  I've 
seen  fairer  women  than  you  and  I've  seen  wiser 
women  than  you.  But  I've  never  seen  and  never  shall 
see  anything  like  you.  You've  got  fine  thoughts. 
You've  made  me  feel  small  sometimes.  I  love  you. 
Come  to  me  and  I'll  teach  you  what  love  like  mine 
can  do.  And  I'll  learn  what  life  can  be,  shared  with 
such  a  wonder.  Come  to  me,  Elisabeth  Densham,  and 
teach  me ;  and  I'll  teach  you  too.  My  laming  be  use- 
ful in  its  way.  Come,  and  we'll  see  which  shall  lift 
t'other,  as  you  say.  I  want  you  something  terrible ! 
I  want  to  be  fighting  for  you.  I  want  to  show  you 
that  you  can't  stand  alone,  though  you  think  you 
can." 

He  ceased  but  she  did  not  immediately  reply.  Her 
thoughts  wandered  and  she  found  herself  retracing 
the  recent  quarrel.  He  did  not  know  of  that,  but  he 
knew  of  whom  she  was  thinking. 

"  Never,"  he  said.  "  That  man  never  can  and  never 
will  be  what  I  should  be.  Better  perhaps,  but  dif- 
ferent. He's  a  smaller  pattern  than  me.  You  know 
that.  He  can  fight  too,  you  think.  Yes,  love  makes 
man  or  beast  brave  for  a  while.     He'd  fight  for  'e — 


THE  BEACON  133 

in  a  feeble  sort  of  way  from  under  his  uncle's  wing. 
But  for  nought  else ;  and  he  won't  fight  for  'e  when 
he's  got  'e.  Remember  that.  You'll  have  to  fight  for 
him.  You'll  tire  of  that.  He'll  cloy  in  the  house. 
He'll — but  I  won't  speak  of  him.  'Twouldn't  be  fair 
— I  don't  know  him  well  enough.  I  love  you  and  I 
want  to  marry  you.  I've  kept  it  back  till  now,  not  for 
doubt  of  love  but  for  doubt  of  myself.  The  better  I 
knew  you,  the  more  I  knew  what  you  were  worth — 
far  more  than  I  can  offer  in  exchange.  But  you  don't 
care  for  goods,  or  I  shouldn't  have  cared  for  you. 
Can  you  think  of  it?  " 

She  had  a  strange  feeling  that,  but  for  the  recent 
quarrel,  she  might  have  accepted  him.  Yet,  in  the 
face  of  what  had  just  passed,  her  spirit  told  her  that 
she  could  not  in  honour  do  so.  Again  she  saw  Tre- 
vail  creeping  away  forlorn  from  her.  She  believed 
that  a  sort  of  treachery  must  lurk  in  going  for  ever 
from  him  to  the  other  man  at  this  moment.  Right 
well  she  knew  that  Dunning  would  finely  match  her; 
yet  she  dreaded  his  power  of  will.  She  was  proud 
to  have  won  him ;  she  throbbed  to  see  him  tamed  at 
her  feet.  She  liked  him  better  now  than  she  had  ever 
liked  him.  But  still  he  grated  harshly  here  and  there. 
She  argued  with  herself  and  made  every  sort  of  ex- 
cuse but  the  true  one.  Yet  when  she  answered,  the 
true  one  came. 

Her  thoughts  moved  swiftly  and  she  did  not  keep 
the  farmer  waiting  very  long. 

She  shook  her  head  and  spoke  gently. 

"  I  couldn't  do  that.  I  admire  you  very  much. 
You're  the  sort  of  man  I  do  admire.  You're  strong 
and  safe ;  and  if  you're  hard,  you're  just.  But  I  d<  >n't 
love  you." 

"  Perhaps  you've  never  thought  upon  it  ?  " 

"Yes  I  have.  I  felt,  somehow,  long  ago  that  you 
liked  me.  I  was  a  good  hit  flattered  to  think  you 
could.     And  so  I  wondered  sometimes.     But  T  don't 


134  THE  BEACON 

feel  like  that.  I  hope  you'll  be  my  friend  still.  'Tis 
a  power  of  strength  to  a  girl  alone  in  the  world  to 
know  she  has  a  strong  and  a  kind  friend." 

He  got  up. 

"  You're  wrong,"  he  said.  "  'Tis  beyond  guessing 
what  things  you  and  me  might  have  done  pulling  in 
double  harness.  But,  if  you  don't  love  me,  there's  no 
more  to  be  said.  Only  remember  this:  life's  harder 
than  the  hardest  and  stronger  than  the  strongest ;  and 
two  hearts  can  often  bear  a  load  that  will  break  one. 
Marry  that  man  and  you'll  be  a  lonely  woman  as  sure 
as  you're  born.  You'll  bear  his  burdens  and  he  won't 
know  you're  doing  it;  you'll  wear  your  wits  to  the 
bone  for  him,  and  he  won't  thank  you  for  your  trou- 
ble; you'll  plot  and  plan  his  life  for  him  and  he'll  wish 
to  Christ  you'd  let  him  go  his  own  way.  He  can't 
understand  your  mind,  because  his  own  ban't  built  to 
do  it.  Can  a  hawk  eat  corn?  He'll  want  to  keep 
near  the  ground,  and  if  you  try  to  teach  him  to  fly 
you'll  get  worse  than  your  trouble  for  your  pains. 
Because  if,  to  please  you,  he  tries,  he'll  hurt  himself. 
You  don't  love  me.  So  much  the  worse  for  me.  I 
must  bear  that  as  I  can.  And  you  do  love  him.  So 
much  the  worse  for  you.  A  friend  I'll  be  to  you 
while  I'm  above  ground — if  'tis  only  for  the  sake  of 
what  you've  taught  me.  I'm  sorry  to  have  wasted 
so  much  of  your  time.  And  now  I'll  be  gone.  Good- 
bye." 

He  prepared  to  leave  her  and  she  rose  and  put  out 
her  hand. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  friendship.  I'll  value  it  far 
higher  than  you  know.  You'll  find  a  better  than  me 
before  long." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall." 

He  was  gone,  but  not  before  he  had  swept  aside 
her  sophistries  and  told  her  the  truth.  She  knew  that 
she  loved  Trevail  more  than  anything  on  earth,  and 
she  believed  that  her  destiny  was  to  lift  his  head  in 


THE  BEACON  135 

the  land  and  play  the  shield,  under  whose  protection 
he  would  advance  safely  to  the  high  places  of  his  life. 
Obscured  by  that  conviction,  she  lost  sight  of  Dun- 
ning and  his  bleak  outlook  now;  but,  later  on,  she 
thought  upon  his  love-making  and  was  amazed  to  re- 
member the  humility  of  it — as  compared  with  his 
usual  attitude.  He  had,  however,  known  fairer  and 
wiser  women ;  and  he  had  been  at  pains  to  say  so. 
When  Trevail  asked,  he  would  not  say  that.  Elisa- 
beth doubted  not  that  fairer  than  she  had  passed  be- 
fore Reynold  Dunning' s  judgment;  but  honestly  she 
did  not  suppose  that  Dartmoor  had  offered  him  any- 
thing so  clever.  She  had  plenty  of  sense  and  knew 
it.  She  was  self-taught,  but  soundly  taught,  and 
towns  had  sharpened  a  natural  power  of  observation. 
Yet — yet  he  had  said  she  was  a  wonder;  and  that  he 
should  consider  any  woman  a  wonder  was  remark- 
able. On  second  thoughts  she  liked  his  love-making 
and  it  would  have  filled  a  larger  part  of  her  subsequent 
reflections,  but  for  the  paramount  matter  of  the  quar- 
rel with  Trevail. 

Elisabeth  felt  cold  and  rose  and  went  down  to  the 
lime  kilns.  Morbidly  sometimes  she  stood  above  the 
gaping  pit  of  red-hot  stone  and  speculated  on  the  fate 
of  any  unfortunate  creature  who  might  fall  in. 

Having  warmed  her  hands  and  gazed  aloft  at  Cos- 
don,  sinking  now  into  the  twilight  hour,  she  prepared 
to  return  home.  She  looked  up  the  valley  first  and 
saw  the  roof  of  Trevail's  farm,  and  then  she  de- 
scended. 

Lucky  Madders  was  below  and  she  spoke  with  him. 
He  was  at  the  furnace  mouth  of  the  kiln  '  pulling  lime.' 
Masses  of  the  calcined  stone  were  liberated  through 
the  floor  of  the  fire,  and  Lucky  threw  what  was  not 
'  cooked  '  into  one  pile  and  collected  the  lime  in  heaps 
upon  another.  The  place  reeked  with  hot  and  dusty 
air  in  which  lime  particles  hung  thickly. 

"  This  here  pulling  lime  be  the  thirstiest  work  in 


136  THE  BEACON 

nature,"  he  sSid;  "and  that's  why  for  I  like  it,  I  ex- 
pect!" 

He  showed  her  the  nature  of  his  toil  and  expatiated 
on  the  value  of  the  material. 

"  'Tis  brown  lime  you  see — the  very  bestest  sort 
for  the  bricklayer,  or  the  farmer  either.  White  lime 
be  nothing  to  it  and  haven't  got  half  the  vartue.  If 
I  don't  know,  who  should?  I've  been  burning  lime 
for  more  than  half  a  century.  But  there's  one  or 
two  besides  me  understands.  There's  master  for  one, 
though  he  wants  everything  for  nothing  and  often 
says  I'm  a  wasteful  old  blid.  And  Reynold  Dunning 
— he  was  here  a  bit  ago — he  understands  too.  A 
very  clever  man  and  hates  master.  He's  lusting  after 
this  here  place  and  knows  a  lot  about  it.  He  says 
we  waste  tons  of  money  working  it.  '  Better  tell  Mr. 
Mortimore  where  then,'  I  said  to  him  in  my  sly  way, 
well  knowing  how  they  feel  to  each  other.  '  No,'  he 
answered,  '  but  perhaps  I'll  show  him  where  some 
day,  when  I  get  the  quarry  over  his  head.'  'Tis  pull 
devil  pull  baker  between  them  men  and,  sometimes, 
for  all  I  know  what  master  is,  I  can't  help  thinking 
the  battle  will  go  to  the  younger  chap  in  the  long  run. 
And  I  and  a  few  more  ancient  men  stand  and  look  on 
very  peaceful,  for  it  is  all  one  to  us  who  makes  his 
fortune  so  long  as  we  get  our  wages.  We  all  hoped 
to  make  our  fortunes  once;  but  that  dies  out,  you 
know.  'Tis  just  a  youthful  complaint,  and  life  mighty 
soon  cures  it.  Then  we  are  contented  to  hope  for  a 
bit  of  happiness;  and  then  even  that  goes;  and  at  last 
we  ask  no  more  than  to  be  allowed  to  creep  about  and 
escape  from  pain." 

He  prattled  on  and  presently,  having  thanked  him 
for  telling  her  so  many  interesting  things,  she  left  him 
and  returned  to  Zeal.  From  that  hour  the  azure  of 
her  youth's  bright  sky  was  clouded.  Gloom  encom- 
passed her  when  she  tried  to  sleep  and  she  wept. 
Thought  and  care  were  already  busy  with  her  brow, 


THE  BEACON  137 

to  stamp  their  impress  upon  it ;  for  she  belonged  to 
the  children  of  thought  and  could  not  escape  her  her- 
itage. Her  mind  tormented  her  until  the  day  broke, 
and  she  tasted  the  torture  that  may  spring  from  a 
man's  true  love. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ALLIED  to  superabundant  hardiness,  energy  and 
vitality,  that  seemed  to  link  him  with  a  prehis- 
toric order  of  beings,  Abraham  Mortimore,  as  we  have 
said,  observed  a  rule  of  conduct,  though  that,  too,  was 
antiquated.  His  father  had  been  '  an  Old  Testament 
man,'  as  he  was  fond  of  declaring;  he  had  received 
his  name  from  the  mythical  common  father  of  the 
Semitic  tribes;  and  upon  the  tribal  God  of  the  Jews 
did  he  build  his  ferocious  and  egoistic  morality.  Je- 
hovah's way  with  man  satisfied  this  archaic  spirit.  He 
did  not  perceive  its  shortcomings  but  only  envied  its 
paramountcy.  He  stood  at  the  point  of  pure  mono- 
theism reached  by  Israel  after  the  return  from  cap- 
tivity. There  was  one  God  for  Mortimore,  and  he 
conducted  his  operations,  not  so  much  on  that  God's 
preaching  through  the  mouth  of  men,  as  upon  his 
practice,  exemplified  in  the  Pentateuchal  narrative.  A 
supernatural  being  sprung  in  direct  descent  from 
stones  and  ancestral  spirits,  was  good  enough  for  him ; 
this  fetish  justified  to  himself  his  own  attitude  to 
man.  He  had  a  sort  of  vulpine  subtlety,  and  while  he 
fretted  at  the  injustice  of  modern  laws  built  for  the 
weak,  he  obeyed  them;  but  his  own  gifts  of  parsimony, 
thrift  and  self-control  made  him  a  strong  man  in  an 
age  enfeebled  by  high  civilization  at  so  many  points. 
In  a  town  he  had  proved  less  powerful;  among  the 
rural  folk  his  strength  was  manifest. 

In  reality  Abraham  Mortimore  liked  his  nephew 
well.  From  early  youth  he  had  known  and  befriended 
Charles,  and  if  his  attachment  to  the  younger  was 
more  the  friendship  that  a  man  feels  to  a  dog  than 
to  a  fellow-man,  yet  the  emotion  could  be  called  gen- 

138 


THE   BEACON  139 

nine.  Certainly  it  exceeded  any  entertained  by  Morti- 
more  for  another.  Trevail  was  grateful  to  him,  faith- 
ful to  him  and  useful  to  him.  The  amenities  of  Tre- 
vail had  even  served  him  at  a  pinch  and  succeeded  with 
men  impervious  to  his  own  methods.  Trevail,  like 
the  sun,  succeeded  in  making  a  traveller  part  with  his 
coat  sometimes,  when  the  east  wind  of  his  uncle  failed 
to  win  it.  "  We  hunt  in  couples,"  Mortimore  actu- 
ally said  on  a  gracious  occasion.  But  long  ago  the 
elder  had  perceived  the  futility  of  making  Charles  a 
man  like  himself.  He  took  him  now  as  he  was,  held 
him  at  a  certain  valuation  and  used  him,  when  Tre- 
vail's  own  peculiar  and  minor  gifts  of  tact  and  ur- 
banity seemed  better  suited  to  an  occasion  than  his 
own  drastic  methods.  At  first  the  younger  was  thus 
employed,  to  succeed  where  Mortimore  had  failed; 
but  with  time  the  old  man  grew  more  crafty  and 
avoided  the  risk  of  failure  before  any  clash  of  opin- 
ions had  precipitated  hot  blood.  In  his  own  way  he 
was  a  judge  of  character,  and  as  Trevail  came  to 
man's  estate  and  matured  his  personality,  with  its 
genial  good-will  and  reasonableness,  he  grew  more 
useful  to  his  uncle. 

But  neither  influenced  the  other  for  good  or  harm 
save  in  one  particular.  Mortimore  was  powerless  to 
put  any  of  his  iron  into  the  farmer;  but  insensibly  he 
led  him  along  one  of  his  own  paths,  and  the  lust  for 
possessions,  that  was  a  part  of  the  elder,  began  to 
grow  upon  the  younger  also.  To  this  infirmity  Tre- 
vail appeared  very  pervious.  He  was  conscious  of  it 
dimly — sufficiently  conscious  to  conceal  it  from  all 
eyes  but  his  uncle's.  And  there  revealed  it  stood  to 
him  as  a  virtue.  Mortimore's  common  sense  deserted 
him  in  this  particular  and  a  quite  primitive  simplicity 
was  revealed.  He  hoarded.  He  distrusted  institu- 
tions and  wasted  money  by  keeping  it  with  him.  He 
lent  a  little  indeed  at  extravagant  rates  to  those  who 
were  in  distress ;  but  he  was  uneasy  in  this  business 


140  THE  BEACON 

and  hated  risk.  He  was  fond  of  bargains;  he  showed 
an  irrational  spirit  by  collecting  all  manner  of  things 
and  storing  them.  For  years  he  had  dwelt  in  a  small 
thatched  cottage  at  the  top  of  the  village.  Then  his 
increasing  possessions  made  him  fear,  and  he  erected 
the  square  and  solid  dwelling  in  which  he  now 
dwelt.  He  drew  the  plan  himself,  and  built  the  house 
himself  with  stone  and  lime  and  gravel  from  the 
quarry. 

Hither,  seven  days  after  his  disastrous  talk  with 
Elisabeth,  came  Trevail  at  dawn.  It  yet  wanted  some 
minutes  of  four  o'clock  when  he  appeared,  but  his 
uncle  was  waiting  for  him,  and  together  in  the  pure 
light  of  a  cloudless  morning  they  set  out  together  to 
walk  to  Chagford.  The  matter  in  hand  concerned 
the  purchase  of  a  house  in  the  adjacent  hamlet,  and 
Mortimore,  familiar  with  the  present  owner,  judged 
that  his  nephew  might  haggle  to  better  purpose  with 
such  a  man  than  he  could. 

They  passed  by  Clannaboro'  from  which  no  feather 
of  smoke  as  yet  ascended.  But  Mortimore  saw  Rey- 
nold Dunning  ride  off  in  front  of  them  on  a  pony  and 
his  eyes  glared  lightning  at  the  back  of  the  vanishing 
figure. 

He  said  nothing,  however,  for  some  time,  though 
the  master  of  Clannaboro'  continued  to  occupy  his 
thoughts. 

"  That  man's  after  a  woman !  "  he  broke  out  sud- 
denly. 

"What  man?"  asked  Trevail,  unaware  of  the 
train  of  thought  in  his  uncle's  mind,  for  there  had 
passed  twenty  minutes  of  silence  between  them. 

"  The  Clannaboro'  man.  And  I'm  hopeful  he'll  get 
her.  'Twill  be  a  tower  of  strength — to  me.  Halve 
your  interests  with  somebody  else  and  you  weaken 
your  fighting  power  a  lot.  If  he  had  a  wife  and 
maybe  children — it's  like  offering  yourself  naked  to 
the  world.     Your  armour  be  gone.     You've  got  to  de- 


THE  BEACON  141 

fend  yourself  at  fifty  places;  and  you've  got  less  power 
of  doing  it." 

"  You  mean  Miss  Densham?  " 

Trevail's  voice  faltered. 

"  Yes,  Lizzie  at  the  inn.     I  see  you  know." 

"  I  know  this :  that  the  man  that  wins  her  will  be 
a  thousand  times  stronger  for  it,  not  weaker.  There's 
not  many  women  like  her  in  the  world." 

Mortimore  scoffed. 

"  A  woman's  a  woman — clay  to  man's  stone  always 
— meant  to  be ;  built  to  be ;  invented  to  be.  And  they 
make  up  their  weakness  by  craft,  as  the  way  of  the 
female  creature  is.  The  first  man  was  just  like  you 
— else  the  history  of  the  world  would  be  different. 
If  he'd  been  like  me — well,  I  might  have  disobeyed 
my  Maker  and  ate  of  the  tree ;  but  I'd  have  took  damn 
good  care  my  female  didn't.  That's  neither  here  nor 
there.  They  be  another  name  for  guile,  the  best  of 
'em,  and  I'll  not  believe  that  any  man  worth  calling  a 
man  is  better  for  tying  himself  hard  and  fast  to  one 
em. 

"  Dunning's  like  you,  but  not  in  that.  He  wouldn't 
have  thought  of  her,  or  looked  at  her,  if  he  hadn't 
known  she  was  one  in  ten  thousand — one  in  ten  mil- 
lion. When  was  it  ever  heard  that  he  ever  did  any- 
thing but  flout  women  till  she  came?  And  I  tell  you 
this,  Uncle  Abraham,  if  you'd  met  such  a  woman  as 
Lizzie  when  you  were  thirty  years  younger,  you'd 
loved  her  and  wanted  her — for  her  strength." 

The  other  considered. 

"No — wanted  her  I  might;  and  if  I'd  wanted  her, 
I'd  have  got  her.  But  love  her  I  should  never.  I 
don't  know  what  that  is.  And  you — you're  after  her, 
too,  and  the  work's  going  to  hell  in  consequence." 

"If  you  must  know,  I  love  her  with  my  whole  heart 
and  soul." 

"  He'll  beat  you  easy  enough." 

Trevail  flushed  and  his  lips  tightened. 


142  THE  BEACON 


(< 


Will  he?  How  d'you  know?  You  talk  as  if  we 
were  two  men  fighting  for  a  granite  gate-post.  Lizzie 
Densham  is  alive.  Brute  force  can't  do  everything — 
or  anything  in  that  quarter.     She's  got  a  mind." 

"  So's  a  tiger  got  a  mind — or  a  wolf,  or  any  other 
beast  of  prey.  And  she's  a  beast  of  prey — every 
woman  is — like  every  cat  is.  They  only  pretend  dif- 
ferent— to  hoodwink  such  of  us  as  can  be  hoodwinked. 
But  never  was  a  tiger  born  but  could  be  broke  under 
the  will  and  whip  of  man.  And  never  was  a  woman 
born  that  couldn't.  Don't  I  know?  Haven't  I  had 
dealings  with  them  and  bested  them?  But  they've 
never  bested  me.  I  saw  a  man  at  a  beast  show  once — 
years  agone.  He  made  a  gert  leopardess  do  tricks. 
She  curled  and  coiled  and  snarled  and  showed  a  set  of 
teeth  at  him  like  a  man-trap.  She  thrust  towards 
him ;  she  came  as  near  as  she  dared.  But  his  whip 
was  in  his  hand  and  his  eyes  were  on  the  creature ; 
and  the  beast  jumped  through  a  hoop  of  fire  for  him, 
and  other  fool's  tricks.  But  by  God!  there  was  no 
love  lost.  '  A  great  lesson  that,'  thought  I — '  Tis  the 
way  to  treat  men  and  women — especially  women. 
Never  take  your  eye  off.'  I  talked  to  the  tamer  after 
and  looked  at  his  whip.  The  handle  was  lead,  the 
lash  was  leather  and  steel.  He  could  have  cut  to  the 
bone  with  it  if  need  be.  And  the  leopardess  knowed 
that  from  experience." 

"  Your  bark  is  worse  than  your  bite,  uncle." 

"Wait  till  you've  felt  my  bite." 

"  I'm  going  to  offer  for  Lizzie.  I'd  meant  to  tell 
you,  but  I  thought  you  had  guessed.  You  say  that 
man  will  beat  me.  I  say  he  might  if  she  was  a  stock 
or  a  stone.     But  she  cares  for  me.     I've  found  that 


out." 


"Why?     Because  you're  my  nephew." 

"  Not  so  at  all.     I'll  be  plain.     She  don't  care  for 

you." 

"  Naturally — what    woman   does — or   man    either  ? 


THE  BEACON  143 

I'm  not  the  sort  folk  care  for.  I'd  take  shame  to 
myself  to  think  I  was." 

"  Money  and  promises  of  money  don't  tempt  her. 
She's  got  strange  thoughts.  They  are  grand  in  a 
sort  of  way  for  a  young  woman  to  have.  But  they're 
above  me  altogether." 

"  Moonshine." 

"  Not  to  her.  No  doubt  time  will  make  her  more 
sensible.  But  she's  very  ambitious  and  always  at  me 
to  take  larger  ideas  and  all  that." 

Mortimore  was  interested. 

"Is  she?  Well,  I  don't  find  fault  with  her  there. 
I've  tried  to  do  the  same." 

"  No  you  haven't.  You  want  me  harder :  she  wants 
me  higher.  But  'tis  all  talk  between  us.  I  love  her : 
that's  what  matters.  And  I  know  that  I'd  be  a  brisker 
and  cleverer  and  usefuller  man  a  thousand  times  over 
if  I  had  her." 

"  And  what  do  she  think  of  t'other?  " 

"  She  don't  often  name  him  except  to  quote  some- 
thing he's  said.  I  should  reckon  she  likes  his  ideas 
better  than  she  likes  him." 

The  elder  reflected. 

"  Well,  taking  the  rough  with  the  smooth,  you'll  do 
wiser  to  drop  it.  She  may  have  sense,  but  how  far 
does  it  reach?  To  be  in  love  at  all  is  to  be  a  fool,  if 
only  for  a  time.  And  where  the  marriages  are  happy, 
it  means  that  both  are  fools  in  grain ;  and  where  they 
aren't,  which  is  generally,  it  means  that  one  or  both 
have  recovered.  Then  there's  children.  No  sane 
woman  wants  them  surely?  Let  Dunning  get  her  if 
he  can,  and  you  go  your  way  and  watch  her  mess  up 
his  life  for  him." 

They  came  to  Chagford  presently,  and  at  the  bridge 
over  Teign,  in  the  valley  beneath  the  village,  met  Rey- 
nold Dunning  on  his  return  journey.  He  stopped 
his  pony  in  answer  to  Trevail's  nod,  but  addressed  his 
uncle. 


144  THE  BEACON 

"  Good  morning,  Mortimore,"  he  said.  "  I  may- 
save  you  a  journey.  Are  you  come  about  Nicholas 
Perrott's  house — the  one  he  wants  to  sell?  " 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"  Nothing  now.  I've  just  bought  it.  One  to  me 
— eh?  You  save  a  penny  too  often,  my  old  bird ;  and 
too  often  lose  a  shilling  by  it.  If  you  went  about 
quicker  on  four  legs  and  didn't  trust  so  much  to  your 
own  two,  you'd  win  many  a  market  that  you  miss 
nowadays ! " 

He  laughed  grimly  in  the  other's  face  and  was  gone. 

Mortimore  stood  still  upon  the  bridge.  Then  he 
rested  at  the  parapet  and  crossed  his  arms,  stared  at 
the  flowing  river  beneath,  and  busied  himself  with  his 
thoughts. 

"  All  rubbish  I  dare  say,"  suggested  Trevail. 

But  the  other  put  up  his  hand  for  silence. 

"  Don't  you  be  twittering,"  he  said.  "  No ;  that 
man  never  talks  rubbish.  He's  got  the  house  and  he's 
given  me  a  lesson  in  the  bargain.  The  most  useful 
knowledge  in  the  world  is  what  we  get  from  our  ene- 
mies." 

For  once  he  showed  no  rage  before  defeat  but  rather 
a  sullen  amusement. 

"  Didn't  know  he  was  good  for  a  house  like  that,"  he 
said — to  himself  rather  than  to  his  nephew. 

Then  he  turned  his  back  on  Chagford  without  more 
words  and  began  to  walk  home.  In  a  lane  he  plucked 
a  handful  of  dandelion  leaves  and  ate  them.  For  a 
long  time  he  said  nothing ;  then  he  spoke  to  some  pur- 
pose and  surprised  Trevail  mightily. 

"  Get  that  woman  away  from  him !  "  he  said  sud- 
denly. "  I  believe  'tis  a  rare  case  where  she'd  do 
more  good  than  harm  to  the  man.  He's  cunning  and 
he's  clever,  and  if  he  wants  her,  'tis  not  for  nonsense 
but  for  business.  You  go  for  her  and  get  her  away. 
You  can  dangle  a  bit  of  money  afore  her  if  you  like. 


THE  BEACON  145 

Buy  the  woman  a  gift.     I've  got  a  golden  brooch  that 
I'll  sell  cheap." 

The  bar  of  the  Oxenham  Arms  faced  north,  but 
upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  stood  a  double 
cottage  with  a  white-washed  front,  and  when  the  sun 
shone  upon  it  the  light  was  reflected  brilliantly  across 
and  flashed  into  Lizzie's  workshop.  Often  it  gleamed 
upon  her  face  and  hair,  touched  the  polished  brass  and 
pewter,  warmed  the  darkest  nooks  and  crannies  of  the 
old  tap-room.  The  debt  was  repaid  at  night,  for  then 
a  great  disc  of  light  thrown  from  the  bar  windows 
flamed  out  against  the  opposite  walls,  and  often  a 
grand  silhouette  of  Lizzie's  head  appeared  for  a  mo- 
ment there  as  she  bent  and  eclipsed  the  light. 

Trevail  saw  this  spectacle  now  and  his  heart  quick- 
ened. He  entered  the  bar  and  waited  for  a  little  while 
until  a  customer  was  gone.  He  came  early  that  he 
might  escape  the  habitual  visitors,  for  he  had  much  to 
say,  and  he  knew  not  how  difficult  it  might  be  to  make 
his  peace.  Their  last  parting  had  been  in  anger  at 
the  quarry — a  week  earlier.  He  came  to  his  apology 
gradually  and  found  the  woman  in  a  gentle  mood. 
She  smiled  and  shook  hands  with  him;  but  he  felt*  a 
barrier.  His  sensitive  spirit  told  him  that  there  had 
come  a  change  over  him  and  he  wrongly  attributed  it 
to  their  quarrel. 

"  'Tis  wonderful  how  that  light  shines  over  the  way," 
he  said.  "  'Tis  just  like  a  magic  lantern,  and  when 
your  head  gets  between  it  and  the  window  you  can 
see  a  shadow  picture  of  you  against  the  front  of  Mr. 
Knapman's  house.  'Tis  like  they  black  outline  pic- 
tures Tom  Underbill  have  got  of  his  grandparents. 
There's  many  in  cottages  and  they  belong  to  a  time 
before  photographs,  I  believe.  But  against  the  wall 
opposite  you  come  out  huge." 

She  was  amused. 


146  THE   BEACON 

"  I  suppose  I  do." 

"  Let  me  in  the  bar  a  moment  and  you  run  out  to 
the  door.     Then  you'll  see." 

She  agreed  and  saw  Trevail's  profile  upon  the  white- 
wash. He  did  not  know  it  but  the  straight  lines  of 
his  face  thus  made  gigantic  were  fine.  Lizzie  admired 
the  effect  more  than  she  confessed. 

"  'Tis  give  and  take  on  the  sides  of  the  street,"  she 
said.  "  Mrs.  Knapman's  a  very  early  riser,  and  often 
in  the  winter  'twas  the  flash  of  her  kitchen  fire,  touch- 
ing the  ceiling  over  my  bed,  that  has  told  me  the  time 
had  come  to  get  up." 

Her  lover  laughed. 

"  You're  near  as  bad  as  my  uncle.  He  makes  it 
his  boast  that  in  winter  he  rises  by  the  light  of  a 
morning  candle  from  t'other  side  of  the  street.  Old 
White,  the  woodman,  lives  there — a  bachelor  too — 
and  so  soon  as  uncle  sees  his  light  glimmering  across, 
he  rises  up  and  dons  his  clothes  by  it !  " 

The  conversation,  thus  pleasantly  begun,  kept  cheer- 
fully on  until  Charles  had  achieved  his  purpose. 

"  I'm  cruel  sorry  once  for  all  about — about  that 
business  in  the  quarry.  It  served  me  very  well  right 
for  not  going  up  the  hill  as  you  wanted  me  to.  And 
never,  never  again,  Lizzie,  will  I  ask  you  to  go  walking 
anywhere  else.  You're  right  and  I'm  wrong  about 
it  and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I'm  very  grieved  for  they 
silly  things  I  said." 

"  I've  forgotten  them,  Charlie." 

"  Thank  goodness  for  that ;  but  I  haven't.  Trash, 
that's  what  'twas,  and  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  think 
whatever  I  was  dreaming  about.  Got  out  of  bed  the 
wrong  side  no  doubt." 

"  'Twasn't  all  your  fault,"  she  answered,  but  he 
would  not  hear  that. 

"  All — all.  I  hadn't  got  a  leg  to  stand  upon,  and 
who  be  I,  anyway,  to  dictate  where  you  shall  take 
your  walks?     I  was  properly  ashamed  of  myself  after- 


THE   BEACON  147 

wards — so  much  so  that  I  couldn't  face  you  sooner. 
But  I'm  very  well  paid  out,  so  I  beg  you'll  forgive 
me. 

"  We  can  forgive  each  other,"  she  said.  "  But  you 
make  too  much  of  it  I'm  sure.  People  can't  always 
agree." 

"If  people  don't  agree  with  you,  they're  in  the 
wrong." 

She  shook  her  head  impatiently. 
'  Don't  say  things  like  that.     They  make  me  feel  so 
silly.     Few  women  are  oftener  wrong  than  me — worse 
luck.     I  know  that  much,  however  little  else  I  know. 
We'll  say  no  more." 

"  Prove  that  I'm  forgiven  then  and  let  me  come  to 
the  top  of  the  Beacon  with  you  next  week.  There  for 
choice,  for  that's  the  place  you  love  best  in  these  parts. 
Please,  please,  Lizzie,  I've  got  a  tremendous  good 
reason  for  asking." 

"The  candleberry's  leaves  are  sweet  again?" 

"  Please  say  you'll  come." 

Two  men  entered  the  bar  and  hastened  her  answer. 

"  Very  well,  I  will.     Thursday  of  next  week." 

"  Bottom  of  the  lane  at  three  o'clock?  " 

She  nodded. 

"  Thank  you  with  all  my  heart.  'Tis  far,  far  more 
than  I  deserve,"  he  said ;  and  then  he  was  gone. 

A  moment  later  Jack  Jope  came  in  with  Lucky, 
while  others  soon  followed  behind  them.  Underhill 
appeared  presently  wiping  his  mouth  from  his  supper. 

"  What's  this  I  hear,  souls,  that  Reynold  Dunning 
have  bought  Perrott's  house  at  Chagford  over  Morti- 
more's  head?  "  he  asked. 

"  'Tis  true  enough,"  declared  Jack  Jope.  The  face 
of  this  father  of  a  flock  was  owl-like.  He  wore  a 
white  pointed  beard  and  large,  black-rimmed  specta- 
cles. 

"  Yes,  'tis  gospel.  Dunning  went  off  after  dawn 
and  'twas  all  done  by  the  time  Mr.  Mortimore  arrived. 


148  THE  BEACON 

He's  a  good  bit  surprised  it  seems.  Of  course  we 
know  what  he  thinks  of  Dunning  already.  But  this 
will  make  him  rage  terrible  furious  without  a  doubt. 
He'll  be  a  roaring  lion  amongst  us  now." 

"  I  heard  there  was  an  adder  got  in  '  Iron '  Morti- 
more's  house,"  said  Underhill.  "  He  swore  he  seed 
it  curled  up  afore  the  hearth  when  he  corned  down 
yester  morning.  And  it  slipped  from  him  like  light- 
ning and  went  in  under  the  wainscot  afore  he  could 
slay  it." 

Mr.  Knapman  looked  round. 

"  We'm  all  friends  here  I  believe.  Let's  hope  the 
man  will  put  his  foot  on  it  one  fine  night  getting  into 
bed,  my  dears !  " 

Lucky  laughed. 

"  Mortimore !  Do'e  think  one  long-cripple*  could 
hurt  him?  Why,  'twould  take  the  poison  of  fifty  of 
'em  to  make  him  mind.  He'd  set  no  more  score  on  a 
single  sarpent  than  I  would  on  the  nip  of  a  flea.  I've 
seen  him  take  a  honey-comb  from  his  bee-butts  and 
care  no  more  about  the  stinging  of  the  varmints  than 
a  bear." 

A  sudden  silence  fell,  for  Mortimore  himself  arrived 
to  take  his  evening  potion. 

*  Long-cripple  —  a  viper. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MORNING  had  long  broken  and  the  sun,  hidden 
behind  soft  grey  clouds,  poured  down  great 
fans  of  pale  gold  upon  the  Moor.  Earth  seemed 
wrought  of  nebulous  hazes  beneath  this  illumination. 
They  appeared  to  roll  impalpably  fold  upon  fold  to 
the  dim  foreground ;  and  across  their  tender  gloom 
shot  broad  wedges  of  watery  light  from  above.  A 
single  stream  wound  out  of  these  brooding  vapours 
and  flashed  a  note  of  brightness  in  the  midst.  It 
twinkled  over  shallows  and  meandered  in  a  ribbon  of 
dull  silver  through  the  shadowy  earth.  Light  roam- 
ing touched  a  ridge  here  and  there  and  brought  it  out 
of  the  blur.  Then  the  radiant  finger  wandered  for- 
ward and  the  elevation  vanished  again  into  the  vague. 
Presently  a  little  blue  was  revealed  above  the  place  of 
the  sun;  but  the  secret  of  the  day  did  not  declare  itself 
until  after  noon.  Then  the  sky  settled  into  a  lifeless 
opacity  unbroken  by  any  rift  or  passage  of  moving 
cloud.  One  dome  of  grey  shrouded  the  sky  and  the 
light  values  scarcely  changed  until  evening. 

There  was  no  promise  of  rain  and  when  the  time 
for  her  tryst  arrived,  Lizzie  set  forth  with  gladness 
and  frank  joy.  Because  more  than  a  climb  to  the 
Beacon's  crown  awaited  her  and  she  knew  it. 

No  actual  word  of  Trevail's  could  be  said  to  justify 
this  conviction,  yet  there  was  that  in  his  manner  of 
asking  her  to  go  upon  this  walk  that  spoke  without 
words. 

She  understood  that  he  was  going  to  ask  her  to 
marry  him ;  and  she  knew  what  she  would  answer. 

They  met  at  the  foot  of  the  lane  that  ran  upward 
to  the  Beacon,  and  having  climbed   it,   they  took  a 

149 


150  THE  BEACON 

southern  path  and  came  gradually  to  the  summit. 
They  talked  but  little  at  first;  then  he  put  a  question 
that  opened  into  conversation. 

"  'Tis  very  nearly  a  year  since  you  came  here,  Liz- 
zie. And  what  d'you  think  of  it?  D'you  like  coun- 
try life?  Can  you  look  forward  to  living  here  for 
evermore,  or  do  you  reckon  you're  about  tired  of  it?  " 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I'm  happier  every  way  than  I 
was.  In  London  I  seemed  to  live  by  fits  and  starts. 
'Twasn't  always  living.  Here  I  live  all  the  time — if 
you  can  understand  that." 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  he  answered.  "  I  hadn't  the  wit  to 
light  on  such  a  thought;  but  well  I  know  what  you 
mean.  I  lived  like  that  once — just  felt  I  was  alive 
off  and  on.  Months  and  months  used  to  pass  and  I 
didn't  get  no  forwarder  and  didn't  feel  anything. 
Life  was  just  eating  and  working  and  sleeping — over 
and  over  again.  I  lived  off  and  on.  But  I've  lived 
every  moment  of  my  life — since  you  came  here." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  he  saw  the  delicious  am- 
ber flash  of  her  eyes ;  then  her  head  fell. 

He  did  not  speak  again  until  they  were  at  the  sum- 
mit— poised  on  the  cairn,  like  two  birds  between  the 
sad-coloured  earth  and  sad-coloured  sky. 

"  Few  signs  of  spring  up  here  yet,"  he  said. 

But  she  would  not  have  it  so. 

"  'Tis  here  if  you  look  for  it.  The  candleberry's 
making  leaf.     The  plovers  are  building  their  nests." 

"  Will  you  sit  here?  "  he  asked. 

In  the  crater  formed  at  the  summit  of  the  hill  Tre- 
vail  had  long  ago  made  a  seat  with  stones.  They  oc- 
cupied it  now  and  sat  together  in  that  granite  cup 
under  the  grey  air  hidden  from  all  seeing  life.  Where 
the  pre-Adamite  dead  had  been  laid  under  the  stones 
of  this  rifled  grave,  their  hearts  came  together,  and 
a  sort  of  common  consciousness,  that  scorned  words, 
leapt  in  them  naturally  and  made  the  man's  labour 
light. 


THE  BEACON  1.51 

They  had  known  each  other  nearly  a  year;  they 
had  learned  a  great  deal  about  each  other.  He  could 
not  choose  but  feel  that  she  cared  for  him.  His  na- 
ture was  of  the  sort  that  depends  on  that  knowledge 
and  waits  for  it  before  offering.  In  life  as  in  love  he 
had  never  taken  any  risks  or  set  fortune  on  a  hazard. 
He  had  reached  a  point  with  Elisabeth  where  he  knew 
that  his  eyes  could  ask  and  hers  answer.  And  the  an- 
swer he  felt  inevitable,  even  as  she  felt  his  coming 
question  was.  Perhaps  love  seldom  declares  itself 
after  this  jog-trot  fashion,  since  the  heart  of  man  is 
not  built  often  to  receive  any  grand  passion  so  equita- 
bly. But  Trevail  was  designed  upon  that  mean  pat- 
tern. His  love,  while  a  reality,  had  not  sufficed  to 
lift  him  into  any  chaos  of  spirit.  He  had  been  uncom- 
fortable, hungry,  troubled,  sorry  for  himself;  but  his 
native  soul  found  it  possible  and  indeed  incumbent  to 
endure  and  learn  the  truth  by  other  channels  than 
asking. 

He  came  to  the  matter  placidly.  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  took  hers.     Then  he  told  her  to  look  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Lizzie,  you  lovely  darling,  I  know  what  you 
are  to  me.     But  what  am  I  to  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  know  that  too,"  she  answered. 

His  arms  were  around  her;  but  his  caress  was  tame 
to  hers.  She  began  to  teach  him  from  the  moment 
that  they  touched.  As  Venus  throws  herself  upon 
Mars  in  the  opening  thunder  of  the  Lucretian  epic, 
so  she  now  gloriously  embraced  him.  She  flung  her- 
self into  his  arms.  She  wrapped  him  in  her  own. 
She  pressed  her  hot  face  and  her  whole  body  with 
passion  upon  him.  Nor  did  her  unexpected  ardour 
find  him  lacking.  He  hid  his  amazement  at  such  a 
revelation  and  responded  like  a  strong  man.  His 
frame  mastered  hers  and  she  felt  it  and  shut  her  eyes 
and  rejoiced.  Then  she  relaxed  a  little  and  he  tight- 
ened his  embrace. 

He  cried  to  her. 


152  THE  BEACON 

"Cleave  hold — cleave  hold  of  me!  My  God — and 
I  thought  I'd  lived  afore !  " 

They  panted  into  each  other's  faces  and  their  calen- 
ture was  primitive,  primogenial.  Their  moments  be- 
longed to  the  early  morning  of  man's  days,  when  love 
first  began  to  break  loose  from  sense  a  little,  and  run 
to  meet  spirit  and  return  again  cold.  The  woman  had 
lifted  her  betrothal  far  from  Cosdon's  summit  to  an- 
other environment.  Or  rather,  where  love  raged  over 
ashes  in  a  cairn,  she  had  wakened  echoes  of  the  fierce, 
far-off  time  when  Dionysus  reigned.  To  a  watching 
and  sympathetic  soul  the  ring  of  granite  about  them 
faded  now,  the  grey  sky  lifted  and  a  westering  sun 
shone  red-gold  through  laurel  and  myrtle.  And  be- 
neath that  sudden  springing  of  a  sylvan  dell,  there 
flashed  bright  eyes  and  waved  wild  tresses;  there  rose 
whispered  laughter  of  goat-footed  things  and  whirled 
a  dance  of  brown  thighs  and  white,  where  flying  faun 
and  nymph  ringed  round  the  lovers  to  the  throb  of 
their  shepherd  god's  own  syrinx. 

Light  had  grown  dim  and  evening  fallen  upon  that 
uplifted  earth  when,  like  children  hand-in-hand,  they 
came  down  to  the  valley  again. 


BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  I 

MR.  LUCKY  MADDERS  had  a  home,  though 
the  folk  pretended  that  he  lived  in  the  lime  kilns 
and  only  came  forth  by  night  to  drink  at  the  Oxen- 
ham  Arms. 

At  the  east  end  of  the  long  street  of  Zeal,  where  it 
climbs  from  the  valley  crookedly,  stood  a  small 
thatched  cottage.  The  roof  was  ragged  and  the  face 
was  unclean.  The  garden,  unlike  well-kept  patches 
round  about,  showed  nothing  but  a  crop  of  weeds  and 
willow  herb,  while  from  behind  them,  the  cot  scowled, 
like  a  naughty  and  dirty  child  in  company  of  good, 
clean  ones.  Thus  it  naturally  became  the  most  inter- 
esting on  the  hill. 

Lucky  dwelt  here  with  an  aged,  widowed  sister. 
They  were  indifferent  to  appearances  and  when  Mr. 
Madders  fell  ill  his  doctor  protested  loudly  at  the 
state  of  the  cottage  and  advised  that  the  old  man 
should  be  removed.  But  Lucky  refused  to  go,  for  he 
had  a  mighty  dread  of  hospital. 

Now  he  was  recovered  from  bronchitis,  and  his  sis- 
ter, who  had  no  false  delicacy  about  what  a  com- 
munity owes  to  its  indigent  members,  went  round  beg- 
ging for  eggs  and  other  luxuries  to  forward  convales- 
cence. She  collected  ample  stores,  for  the  invalid  was 
a  favourite. 

There  came  to  him  now  a  visitor  and  Elisabeth 
Trevail,  wife  of  the  master  of  North  Combe  Farm, 
appeared  with  a  little  basket. 

This  was  her  first  visit  to  Zeal  since  her  marriage, 
a  month  before,  and  she  returned  rather  shyly. 

iS3 


154  THE  BEACON 

Mrs.  Bolt,  Lucky's  sister,  was  in  the  village,  and  at 
the  old  man's  entreaty,  Lizzie  sat  down  to  talk  for  a 
few  minutes. 

"  You  are  far  too  stuffy  in  here,"  she  said.  "  Let 
me  open  the  window." 

Mr.  Madders  was  full  of  his  own  symptoms  and 
having  detailed  them,  with  dreadful  particularity,  he 
asked  the  other  how  she  liked  being  married. 

"  I  never  entered  the  state  myself,"  he  said ;  "  but 
'tis  one  of  they  things  you  can  argue  for  and  against, 
and  I  keep  my  own  opinion." 

"  I'm  as  happy  as  the  days  are  long,"  she  declared. 
"  "Pis  a  wonderful  and  beautiful  thing  to  be  married 
to  the  right  man,  Lucky." 

"  No  doubt — a  wonderful  thing,  as  you  say.  The 
betting's  all  against  hitting  on  the  right  one — specially 
for  a  pretty  piece  like  you  be.  However,  you  seem  to 
have  done  it,  and  nobody  better  pleased  than  me.  I 
only  wish  'twas  so  vitty  down  to  the  Arms." 

"  'Twas  cruel  bad  luck — the  little  one — " 

"  Born  dead — yes.  Mrs.  Underhill  is  one  of  they 
never-stand-still  women.  Like  Martha  in  the  Bible. 
If  thicky  Martha  had  found  a  husband — which  she 
did  not  do,  the  men  having  no  use  for  her — 'tis  any 
odds  but  she'd  have  miscarried.  They  energetic,  tire- 
less towsers  ban't  meant  for  childer.  'Tis  the  easy- 
going sort  breed  best.  Tom  was  a  good  deal  put 
about  by  it.  And  I  may  tell  you  that  he  isn't  home 
so  much  as  he  might  be." 

"  Don't  say  that." 

"  Why  not  ?  You  know  all  about  it.  You  wasn't 
there  for  a  year  for  nothing.  My  sister — Susan  Bolt 
— came  upon  Tom  and  that  saucy  girl,  Emma  Jope, 
shoemaker's  daughter  up  in  Whiddon  Down  a  bit  ago. 
Susie  was  walking  back  from  Sandy  Park,  and  she 
surprised  'em  a  good  bit  closer  together  than  any  mar- 
ried man  should  be  to  another  female  than  his  own. 
I  say  these  things  to  you,  because  you're  one  of  the 


THE  BEACON  155 

married  ones  yourself  now  and  have  a  large  heart 
and  a  still  tongue.  Of  course  you  won't  let  it  go  no 
further." 

"  I  hope  your  sister  didn't." 

"  Oh  dear  no.  Susie  had  hell  for  thirty-eight  years 
along  with  the  late  Felix  Bolt.  He  ran  away  with 
her  in  her  teens — him  being  under-gardener  where 
she  worked  as  cook-maid.  '  A  Bolt  from  the  blue  ' 
we  used  to  call  him.  By  God,  he  was  a  bad  'un !  So 
she  understands  a  lot  about  life  in  general,  and  she 
wouldn't  breathe  a  word  to  hurt  Tom  or  his  misses  no 
more  than  I  would." 

"  I  hope  they'll  be  happier  as  time  passes,"  said 
Mrs.  Trevail.  "  If  they  were  but  heart  to  heart, 
Lucky,  nothing  could  come  between  them." 

"  You  brides  be  framed  for  hopefulness,"  he  said. 
"  And  a  good  thing  too.  If  you  ban't  hopeful  now, 
when  should  you  be  ?  But  the  long  and  the  short  with 
Tom  is  that  he  done  what  wiser  than  him  have  done 
and  will  do :  he  married  the  wrong  one.  They  Bur- 
goynes  be  the  pushing,  masterful  sort  that  make  his- 
tory and  get  in  the  papers  in  a  creditable  way.  They 
win  to  testimonials  and  serve  on  parish  councils  and 
catch  the  eye  and  thrive.  And  she's  the  same.  He 
wanted  a  let-well-alone  woman,  as  could  make  time  for 
cuddling  and  comfort.  Then  to  kill  his  child  unborn 
through  her  terrible  gift  of  work — 'twas  a  very  hard 
blow  to  the  man." 

"  You  oughtn't  to  say  that." 

"  Well,  doctor  did — that's  all  I  know.  He  told — 
however  'tis  all  one.  The  people  go  their  own  way 
and  life  pans  out  according  to  the  liver." 

"  I'm  going  to  Oxenham  Arms  now — to  see  them 
all.  Charlie's  away  in  Exeter  and  Mrs.  Underhill  has 
asked  me  to  have  dinner  with  them." 

"  The  new  bar-maid  is  a  failure  I'm  told.  Neddy 
Knapman  was  in  yesterday  to  smoke  a  pipe  and  give 
me    the    news.     And    a    very    nice    young    rabbit    he 


156  THE  BEACON 

brought  with  him.  The  kindness  you  find  in 'people 
as  you'd  think  didn't  know  the  world !  'Twas  almost 
worth  while  having  the  tubes  go  wrong  to  see  the  hu- 
man nature  in  this  place." 

"  We're  all  very  fond  of  you,  Lucky." 

"  And  well  I  know  it.  But  the  new  girl  won't  do 
I'm  told.  She  comes  from  Plymouth  and  be  a  cat- 
handed  thing — moves  to  the  crash  of  broken  glass 
by  all  accounts.  A  very  violent  woman  and  narrow- 
minded  also." 

"  I'm  sorry." 

"  Narrow-mindedness  is  a  vain  vice,  and  nowhere 
vainer  than  in  a  bar-maiden." 

"  Well,  I  must  be  gone.  I'm  very  glad  you're  bet- 
ter." 

"  How's  my  master?  He  was  in  here  raging  a  bit 
ago.  Said  I  ought  to  be  shamed  of  myself  to  lie  abed 
and  me  no  more  than  threescore  and  ten.  But  all 
things  have  their  uses.  My  being  laid  by  have  showed 
him  that  he  can't  get  a  lime-burner  like  me  off  any 
hedge." 

'  Uncle  knows  that  very  well  now.  He's  storming 
about  as  usual.  He  has  missed  you  a  great  deal. 
My  husband  says  you  ought  to  have  a  bit  on  to  your 
wages  when  you  go  back." 

"  Does  he?  One  for  him!  'Tis  a  very  proper  idea 
and  I  shall  advance  it  and  I  hope  you  will,  if  you've 
got  any  power  with  Mr.  Mortimore." 

"  I  haven't.  Who  has?  We  are  civil  to  each  other 
and  that's  all  we  ever  shall  be.  He  likes  some  things 
about  me  and  he  hates  some  things." 

"  'Tis  a  harsh  vartue  in  the  man  that  you  can  never 
go  in  doubt  of  his  meaning." 

"  Never  for  an  instant.  And  that  saves  an  im- 
mense deal  of  time.  But  you  want  to  be  very  brave 
to  be  quite  clear  with  your  fellow-creatures  always." 

"  That's  true,"  he  admitted.  "  Now  I  never  could 
do  it — must  always  soften  the  edge  of  a  harsh  word." 


THE  BEACON  157 

"  Like  my  husband.  I'm  different.  I'm  more  like 
Uncle  Abraham  in  that.  No  virtue  all  the  same — 
just  according  to  your  nature.  That's  the  beauty  of 
being  married  to  something  different  from  yourself, 
Lucky.  You  learn  so  much.  '  A  soft  answer  turn- 
eth  away  wrath  '  for  instance.  Charlie  has  shown  me 
that." 

She  was  still  in  the  halcyon  hour  of  wedded  life. 
She  loved  and  she  saw  her  husband  through  rose 
colour. 

"  A  soft  answer  may  turn  away  wrath,"  answered 
the  old  man,  "but  it  often  don't  turn  away  trouble; 
it  often  leaves  him  who  speaks  it  very  sick  with  him- 
self after.  What  I  say  is,  if  you'm  in  the  wrong  and 
know  it,  then  be  so  soft  as  you  please;  but  if  you'm 
right,  then  don't  budge  an  inch.  'Tis  better  to  have 
wrath  than  contempt,  and  if  you  turn  away  the  one, 
you'll  be  opening  the  door  to  t'other." 

"  I  understand  that,"  she  answered.  "  I'm  built  to 
understand  that — none  better.  But  I'm  going  to  find 
the  middle  way  now  I'm  married." 

"  Then  you'll  find  it  single-handed,"  he  said,  "  for 
not  your  husband  and  not  '  Iron  '  Mortimore  will  show 
it  to  you." 

She  left  him,  walked  out  of  his  desolate  garden 
and  started  down  the  hill  to  Zeal.  Then  another 
more  familiar  face  than  Lucky's  confronted  her;  she 
passed  a  horseman  and  looked  up  and  saw  Reynold 
Dunning. 

He  was  riding  to  Oxenham  House,  where  it  stood 
in  its  secluded  groves  some  distance  above  the  valley 
beyond  North  Combe;  and  business  of  gravity  took 
him  there;  but  he  reined  up  at  sight  of  Lizzie,  hid  the 
fierce  sudden  throb  at  his  heart  and  dismounted. 

She  smiled  and  offered  her  hand.  He  held  it  and 
shook  it  strongly. 

"Well  met,''  he  said. 

They  had  not  spoken  together  since  her  marriage, 


158  THE  BEACON 

but  they  were  friends  still,  for  after  her  betrothal  he 
had  reminded  her  of  her  promise  to  count  him  a  friend 
always.  His  nature  was  such  that  the  relation  was 
possible  to  him ;  moreover  in  his  mind  the  acquaintance 
embraced  remote  future  chances  and  added  a  salt  to 
his  life.  He  had  suffered  at  her  refusal,  but  when 
he  heard  that  she  was  to  marry  Trevail,  he  told  him- 
self he  had  not  done  with  her.  He  took  the  defeat  in 
a  spirit  apparently  generous  and  reasonable ;  but  only 
because  he  believed  that  he  knew  the  woman  better 
than  she  knew  herself.  Her  friendship  for  the  pres- 
ent was  all  that  he  could  hope  for;  but  he  looked  on 
starkly,  crudely,  through  a  space  of  five  years. 

They  spoke  a  little  on  general  subjects  and  she 
asked  him  where  he  was  going. 

"  No  matter,"  he  answered.  "  You  can't  have  my 
secrets  no  more.  You're  on  the  side  of  the  enemy 
now." 

"The  enemy!" 

"  Be  the  words  too  strong?  Of  course  your  in- 
ests  are  with  Charlie,  and  his  are  with  Mortimore ;  but 
you  very  well  know  that  with  Mortimore  and  me  'tis 
*  which  he  should  '  all  the  time." 

"  I  haven't  thought  of  these  things." 

"  But  you  will.  You're  built  to  think  and  take  life 
too  serious.     So  much  the  worse  for  you." 

"  What  a  croaker  you  are !  Because  you  won't  be 
happy,  is  that  a  reason  why  none  should  be?  " 

"  Happiness  isn't  the  question.  'Tis  the  will-power 
and  the  hunger  to  have  things  different  from  what 
they  are.  You've  got  it;  I've  got  it.  That's  the  sign 
of  brains.  We'd  have  pulled  together  and  pulled 
down  Cosdon  Beacon  between  us  if  we'd  wanted  to. 
But  see  the  picture  of  will-power  and  hunger  on  one 
side,  linked  to  the  wish  to  let  be  on  the  other.  Look 
at  the  Oxenham  Arms." 

"  I'm  going  there  now  to  see  Mrs.  Underhill.  It 
will  come  right,  I  hope." 


THE  BEACON  159 

"  Don't  waste  words  hoping.  Hopes  never  sowed 
a  seed  or  gleaned  a  ear.  You  know  it  can't  come 
right.  Be  Nature  going  to  change  to  suit  a  publican 
and  his  wife?  " 

"Whose  fault  is  it?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You've  lost  your  old  quick  wits,  Lizzie  Trevail. 
You  '  hope '  and  you  ask  '  who's  fault  ?  '  You'd 
never  have  done  one  nor  t'other  six  months  agone. 
Why  do  you  say  '  who's  fault  ?  '  as  though  either  Tom 
or  his  missis  was  to  blame?  Fault's  not  the  word, 
unless  'tis  the  man's  fault  for  being  Tom  Underhill 
and  the  woman's  for  being  Minnie  Burgoyne.  The 
Burgoynes  are  a  proud  race — yeomanry  people  and 
they  don't  forget  it.  Terrible  alive  to  what  they  owe 
themselves — very  jealous  for  their  good  name.  And 
she's  all  that  and  more.  She  took  easy  Tom,  be- 
cause she  saw  a  bit  of  stuff  that  she  could  soak  with 
Burgoyne  ideas  and  make  Burgoyne  all  through.  And 
he  took  her  because  he  loved  her — just  that  reason 
and  no  other.  All  this  ought  to  be  a  bit  interesting 
to  you." 

"  They'll  learn  to  give  and  take." 

"  You  watch  how  it's  going  to  go ;  and  then  you'll 
see  a  picture  of — " 

He  kept  the  rest  of  his  thoughts  to  himself  and 
prepared  to  depart. 

"  I  won't  talk  of  enemies  no  more,"  he  said. 
"  Maybe  'twill  be  your  lot  to  bring  us  all  into  friend- 
ship— eh?  You're  strong  enough  to  do  it  if  you  want 
to.  And  never  trouble  yourself  to  ask  '  who's  fault? ' 
when  things  happen.  We  don't  say  'who's  fault?' 
when  the  bullock's  hoof  goes  into  the  lark's  nest;  we 
don't  say  'who's  fault?'  when  a  spring  frost  ruins 
the  apple  harvest;  I  didn't  say  'who's  fault?'  when 
you  took  Giarlie  instead  of  me.  If  you  want  to  ax 
yourself  a  question,  let  it  be  a  different  one." 

He  nodded  and  rode  off  and  she  stood  a  moment 


160  THE  BEACON 

and  felt  the  old  tonic  emotion  at  sound  of  him.  She 
associated  Dunning  with  the  Beacon  now.  He  seemed 
to  have  won  his  soul  from  that  fastness.  Since  she 
had  refused  him,  a  gentler  spirit  had  animated  him, 
and  this  had  much  impressed  her. 

She  sat  presently  at  dinner  with  the  Underhills 
and  was  happy  to  see  great  apparent  amity  between 
them. 

The  new  barmaid  and  her  idiosyncrasies  formed 
the  theme  of  conversation.  Tom  said  little  but  ap- 
peared to  be  easy  in  his  mind  and  cheerful.  Mrs. 
Underhill  had  recovered  from  the  bitter  disappoint- 
ment of  her  child.  There  was  no  restraint  or  cold- 
ness. They  discussed  Elisabeth's  hopes  and  am- 
bitions and  promised  to  drink  tea  with  her  at  North 
Combe  on  a  coming  Sunday.  As  Dunning  and 
Lucky  had  been,  they  were  interested  to  learn  how 
she  prospered  with  her  uncle.  It  seemed  to  Lizzie 
that  everybody  who  knew  her  apprehended  a  diffi- 
culty in  that  direction.  She  had  done  so  herself  be- 
fore marriage,  but  not  since.  This  problem  was  not 
allowed  to  shadow  her  thoughts  in  the  early  days  of 
the  new  life. 

From  Mrs.  Underhill  the  visitor,  of  course,  heard 
nothing  of  a  private  nature.  The  publican's  wife  was 
notorious  for  reticence  and  none  at  the  Oxenham 
Arms  had  ever  won  her  confidence.  She  was  proud 
and  hid  her  private  griefs  and  fears  from  all  eyes. 
Not  her  mother  or  father  knew  from  her  of  the  dark- 
ness that  haunted  her  life,  or  the  disappointments 
hidden  in  it.  She  kept  a  bold  face  for  the  world; 
did  the  thing  at  hand ;  hoped  still  that  with  time  her 
husband  would  acknowledge  more  generously  her 
powers  and  virtues.  She  knew  that  he  was  not  a 
happy  man,  but  could  not  see  any  way  possible  to  her 
by  which  his  happiness  might  be  increased.  Work 
was  her  panacea  and  filled  her  life;  but  work  by  no 
means  satisfied  Tom's  requirements  and  she  made  the 


THE  BEACON  161 

mistake  of  supposing  her  own  standards  the  only 
right  ones.  She  strove  with  him  to  have  a  higher 
conceit  of  his  position  and  consider  what  he  owed 
himself.  When  this  failed,  she  reminded  him  of  all 
that  he  owed  her ;  then  he  challenged  her  to  show 
him  in  what  his  defection  consisted.  She  endeav- 
oured to  do  so  and  hurt  him  in  one  mood,  and 
angered  him  in  another.  They  had  many  secret  quar- 
rels and  as  many  reconciliations.  She  had  not  the 
synthetical  mind  to  group  and  measure  the  relative 
value  of  things  and  their  bearing  upon  each  other. 
She  would  not  yield  in  minor  particulars,  that  the 
major  issues  might  the  more  readily  be  decided  in  her 
favour.  Minnie's  simple  rule  was  to  have  her  way  in 
everything  that  nearly  or  distantly  concerned  her. 
She  possessed  no  genius  for  apt  concessions ;  but  rating 
her  husband  as  a  man  of  poor  judgment  and  faulty 
ambition,  she  ran  counter  to  him  almost  as  often  as 
their  opinions  differed. 

She  admitted  no  confidantes  to  share  her  uneasi- 
ness ;  but  her  husband  could  not  keep  his  secrets  and 
took  them  to  sympathetic  ears.  Sometimes  he  hated 
himself  for  disloyalty  but,  after  he  had  been  married 
a  year,  that  emotion  wore  off;  he  entered  upon  a 
sullen  phase  and  convinced  himself  that  he  was  misun- 
derstood and  much  wronged.  He  found  no  difficulty 
in  meeting  with  men  and  women  of  the  same  opinion. 
His  own  sex  would  often  loaf  at  the  inn  and  listen  and 
express  commiseration  for  the  sake  of  the  free  drinks 
that  flowed  out  while  Tom  talked ;  and  a  woman  there 
was  who  honestly  did  feel  for  the  publican  and  did 
not  hesitate  to  console  his  bruised  spirit  whenever  he 
sought  her.  Perhaps  she  hardly  knew  what  might 
come  of  the  friendship  at  first;  but  it  seemed  that  a 
time  was  near  when  Emma  Jope  would  have  to  solve 
some  problems  on  her  own  account,  for  presently 
both  she  and  Mr.  Underhill  found  that  he  could  not 

well  do  without  her. 
ii 


162  THE   BEACON 

When  Elisabeth  left  the  inn  she  saw  the  girl  of  her 
thoughts.  A  great  scarlet  tank  drawn  by  two  black 
horses  stood  before  the  dwelling  of  shoemaker  Jope. 
1  Royal  Daylight  Oil '  was  printed  in  black  letters  on 
the  receptacle  and  behind  it,  chaffing  the  driver,  ap- 
peared Emma  with  a  can  in  her  hand. 

She  saw  Lizzie,  set  down  the  can,  ran  across  the 
road  to  her  and  shook  hands. 

"  What  a  stranger !  And  how  do  you  like  being 
Mrs.  Trevail?     You'm  blooming  I'm  sure! ': 

The  girl  was  bright  and  happy.  The  elder  noted 
that  her  eyes  were  brown  and  beautiful,  her  mouth 
small  but  hard.  She  had  a  comely  figure  and  pretty 
hair,  but  she  was  a  little  creature. 

"  And  how's  your  sister  getting  on — Nellie,  I 
mean?  " 

"  She  likes  being  married  so  well  as  you  do.  Ned 
Startup's  doing  well.  There's  nothing  like  being  mar- 
ried seemingly." 

Elisabeth  risked  a  remark  to  see  what  the  girl  would 
answer. 

"  'Twill  be  your  turn  soon — such  a  maiden  for  the 
boys  as  you." 

But  Emma  tossed  her  head. 

"  Boys !  I  haven't  got  no  use  for  boys.  If  I  marry, 
'twill  be  a  man  and  a  rich  one.  But  I  shall  be  an  old 
maid  I  expect." 

They  talked  a  little  while  longer,  and  Emma  made 
no  allusion  to  the  Underhills.  Her  father  had  found 
a  widow  and  proposed  to  marry  again  shortly. 

"  'Tis  Mrs.  Cottle  from  Tawton.  She  says  father 
always  puts  her  in  mind  of  Moses  in  her  family  Bible. 
I  don't  stop  home  an  hour  after  she  come.  Every- 
body knows  she's  a  drinker." 

"What'll  you  do  then?" 

"  Look  round,"  declared  Emma. 


CHAPTER  II 

NORTH  COMBE  FARM  was  happily  planted  in 
the  hollow  of  the  land  beneath  Tawton.  It 
stood  half  a  mile  beyond  Mortimore's  quarry  and  the 
blue-stone  face  of  the  dwelling-house  contrasted  pleas- 
antly with  the  grey  and  mossy  thatches  that  covered 
it.  The  building  faced  south,  and  from  her  bed  Liz- 
zie's wakening  eyes  could  see  Cosdon  rising  into  the 
morning  sky. 

The  place  was  prosperous  but  too  small  every  way 
for  Mrs.  Trevail's  ambitions.  She  did  not  think  that 
North  Combe  offered  a  theatre  large  enough  for  her 
husband's  energies.  At  present,  however,  Charles 
had  but  little  money  saved ;  his  uncle  exacted  an  ade- 
quate rent  for  the  farm ;  indeed  as  her  knowledge  ex- 
tended and  she  began  to  understand  the  value  of  ara- 
ble land,  Lizzie  judged  that  her  husband  paid  too 
much.  Others  confirmed  the  opinion  and  she  felt  at 
this  point  must  the  inevitable  labour  for  Charlie  begin. 
In  many  other  directions  it  seemed  that  his  life  cried 
to  her  dumbly  for  help;  but  she  was  clever;  not  for 
nothing  had  she  seen  the  wedded  life  of  the  Under- 
bills bud  and  blossom.  The  trouble  there  appeared 
in  too  ready  and  inexorable  self-assertion.  She  saw 
very  plainly  indeed  where  Minnie  Underhill  was  ruin- 
ing the  happiness  of  her  home;  and  she  was  full  of 
resolutions  to  avoid  a  like  catastrophe.  In  contrasting 
the  two  cases  she  found  points  of  great  difference 
between  them.  These  need  not  be  detailed,  since  they 
existed  largely  in  Elisabeth's  own  opinion  and  the  dis- 
parity was  not  so  great  as  naturally  she  imagined. 
But  on  one  article  of  difference  she  chose  most  to 
dwell  and  told  herself  very  stoutly  that  in  the  matter 

163 


164  THE  BEACON 

of  a  great,  abundant  and  perfect  love  her  case  was 
quite  unique.  Honestly  she  believed  that  the  Under- 
bills could  never  have  known  the  full  splendour  of 
the  passion  as  it  existed  between  her  and  her  hus- 
band. Such  love,  she  felt  very  confident,  must  sur- 
vive all  stress. 

She  had  been  married  nearly  eight  months  and  not 
a  cloud  was  above  the  horizon ;  but  her  native  spirit, 
having  now  mastered  the  situation  in  all  its  bearings, 
began  at  last  to  cry  out.  The  honeymoon  should  end, 
she  told  her  heart;  it  was  time  that  she  became  more 
to  Trevail.  She  found  him  a  man  to  love  through 
and  through ;  she  believed  that  his  nature  only  wanted 
her  sympathetic  understanding  and  intuition  to  rise 
far  higher.  Speaking  generally  she  supposed  that 
only  one  over-mastering  and  serious  obstacle  stood  be- 
tween Trevail  and  attainment  of  her  ideal  for  him. 

Mr.  Mortimore  and  she  were  never  friends  from 
the  first.  He  soon  perceived  a  fundamental  opposi- 
tion of  principle  and  wished  her  away  again.  He 
held  her  presence  calculated  to  unsettle  and  spoil  his 
nephew's  usefulness,  from  his  point  of  view;  while 
she  believed  that  Mortimore  alone  bulked  as  the  great 
stumbling  block  in  the  life  of  her  husband. 

Everything  centred  on  this;  every  mistaken  senti- 
ment and  ambition  in  the  life  of  Charles  hinged  upon 
his  uncle;  every  higher  thought  and  purer  hope  was 
uttered  beyond  and  without  the  radius  of  '  Iron ' 
Mortimore's  influence.  So  she  believed.  The  older 
man  acted  as  a  permanent  eclipse  on  Trevail's  percep- 
tions, dwarfed  his  ambitions,  sullied  his  aspirations, 
made  him  think  meanly ;  but  Elisabeth  fancied  that 
when  her  husband  thought  and  acted  for  himself, 
without  reference  to  Mortimore,  he  proceeded  on 
nobler  lines  and  showed  more  of  the  truth  of  his  char- 
acter. 

To  wrest  him  from  this  earthly  influence  was  the 
mighty  task  she  hopefully  considered.     And  the  elder 


THE  BEACON  105 

man  guessed  what  she  desired  to  do  and  watched  her 
closely.  It  amused  him  to  think  of  a  woman  coming 
between  him  and  the  only  creature  on  earth  for  whom 
he  cared.  He  knew  her  husband  better  than  Lizzie 
knew  him;  he  understood  the  intrinsic  characteristics 
of  Charles  and  did  not  for  an  instant  imagine  that 
the  influence  of  any  other  was  going  to  alter  his 
nephew's  outlook  or  shake  his  own  dominion  over 
him. 

Sometimes,  to  please  Trevail,  the  young  wife  would 
abandon  her  favourite  pilgrimage  and,  instead,  pass 
pleasant  hours  with  him  in  those  valley  regions  he 
liked  better.  At  such  hours  Lizzie  turned  her  back 
on  the  Beacon  and  dawdled  beside  Taw,  where  the 
river  after  its  long  and  swift  descent  from  the  Moor 
runs  sleek  and  lazy  through  the  valley  reaches.  The 
flat  lands  spoiled  this  stream,  so  thought  Elisabeth. 
All  the  sparkle  and  glitter  were  gone  from  it ;  all  the 
fire  and  energy  were  dead;  its  merry  mountain  song 
had  departed;  it  murmured  drowsily  and  lagged  in 
weedy  backwaters — a  stream  demoralized. 

Taw  Green  was  a  favourite  haunt  of  the  farmer's. 
Here  the  river  meandered,  purring  and  peaceful, 
among  flat  meadows  and  beneath  many  trees.  It 
came  at  length  to  a  bridge  of  one  span.  A  little 
gravel  beach  spread  to  the  brink  under  it;  alders 
thronged  the  bank  and  trailed  their  lower  branches 
in  the  water;  and  the  stream,  taking  a  sudden  turn 
and  running  deeply  in  a  channel,  widened  again, 
spread  out  her  shining  tresses  over  a  comb  of  stones 
and  then  stole  silently  away  into  the  green  shadows 
of  great  oaks. 

To-day  the  sun  shone  brightly  upon  the  water  after 
noon ;  a  trout  rose  under  the  bridge,  where  was  dark- 
ness that  fell  like  a  velvet  pall  across  the  water  be- 
tween two  expanses  of  sparkling  light.  Overhead 
trembled  reflected  illumination  from  the  river.  It 
flashed  up  under  the  bridge  and  found  little  stalactites 


166  THE  BEACON 

that  made  pearly  pendants  about  the  keystone  of  the 
arch. 

Here  came  Charles  and  Elisabeth.  Then  they 
moved  to  a  more  secluded  place  and  sat  together  in 
a  dingle  beside  the  stream.  The  woman  long  remem- 
bered that  spot  and  found  every  tree  trunk  and  river 
growth  unconsciously  impressed  upon  her  mind;  be- 
cause it  was  the  theatre  of  her  first  effort  to  help  her 
husband,  the  scene  in  which  she  began  to  play  her 
part.  Until  now  she  had  been  passive  and  content 
to  lean  and  love.  Now  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  own 
self  must  rise  and  be  up  and  doing. 

"  Life's  lovely,"  she  said  to  him  as  he  lit  his  pipe 
and  yawned ;  "  but  it's  not  all  love,  Charlie." 

"  Don't  you  say  that.  Let's  think  it  is  so  anyway. 
I  can't  see  why  you  should  fancy  otherwise.  If  life 
isn't  all  love,  love's  the  best  thing  in  life,  and  I  want 
nought  better." 

"  There's  nothing  better ;  but  there's  other  things 
that  matter  too." 

"  Leave  that  to  me.  I'm  pretty  wide  awake — eh  ? 
I've  got  you,  and  the  nest's  worthy  of  the  bird.  You 
needn't  fear.  Everything  that  is  mine  is  yours.  You 
just  go  on  loving,  Lizzie,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me." 

"  You  mustn't  divide  the  work  like  that,"  she  said. 
"  You  wouldn't  have  me  a  miserable  woman  twiddling 
my  thumbs  all  day  and  never  doing  my  share.  Deeds 
show  love  more  than  words." 

"  I  love  words  and  deeds  both,"  he  told  her.  "  I 
love  your  speeches  better  than  anything;  and  your 
arms  round  my  neck;  and  your  lovely  body  pressed 
tight  against  me.  Shine  at  that — I  don't  want  yon 
to  shine  at  anything  else.  Damn  the  work.  Let  men 
work.  I  hate  work  and  always  shall,  and  I  hate  to 
see  you  work.  I  look  to  a  time  when  we'll  knock  off 
all  that — both  of  us." 

"  Whatever  are  you  saying,  you  silly  boy !  Don't 
you  know  how  I  love  work — a  regular  glutton  for  it. 


THE   BEACON  167 

That's  the  only  thing  I  like  about  Uncle  Abraham, 
and  that's  the  only  thing  he  hates  about  you." 

'  Well,  let  him  work  if  he's  so  fond  of  it.  Our 
first  and  most  important  bit  of  work  is  to  keep  on  his 
right  side.  And  now  we're  on  it,  Lizzie,  I  do  wish 
you  could  give  and  take  a  bit  more  there.  You  have 
more  in  common  with  him  really  than  I  have.  Be- 
cause he  does  like  a  worker,  and  he  respects  you  for 
the  way  you  face  things  and  get  through  what's  to 
do;  but  somehow  I  feel  you  pull  against  him  a  good 
bit." 

Her  husband  was  carrying  the  war  right  into  Lizzie's 
own  camp — a  thing  she  had  not  expected. 

"  I  hate  his  meanness.     I  can't  help  it.     So  do  you." 

"  Why  call  it  that  ?  Why  not  say  he's  more  than 
common  thrifty?  You  must  admire  his  self-denial 
and  stern  mode  of  life.  If  I  was  like  that,  I  believe 
you'd  think  twice  as  much  of  me  as  you  do." 

She  took  his  hand  and  squeezed  it  between  her  own 
and  kissed  it. 

"You  darling!  You  know  I  couldn't  think  twice 
as  much  of  you.  It's  only  love  that  makes  me  want 
to  help  you  to  have  a  better  time.  I  wouldn't  have 
you  different — only  happier  and  always  happier.  Oh, 
Charlie,  what  you've  taught  me !  But  love  can't 
stand  still.  It's  got  to  burn  brighter  and  brighter  or 
else  dimmer  and  dimmer.  Somehow  I  feel  that. 
And  we — " 

"  Go  on  about  us  and  leave  out  everything  else  in 
the  world.  I'm  never  tired  of  hearing  you  tell  about 
me.  Come  here — nearer.  Good  Lord,  Lizzie,  I 
could  sit  with  my  arm  round  you  for  ever!  Work — 
I  cuss  the  work  that  takes  me  out  of  your  sight ;  and 
if  it  wasn't  for  you  that  I  did  it,  not  another  stroke 
would  I  do." 

She  came  to  him  and  he  fondled  her  and  she  forgot 
all  about  everything  but  her  passion  for  him.  They 
were  lovers  still  and  lived  for  each  other. 


168  THE  BEACON 

Presently  she  tried  to  be  serious  again  and  said  a 
bold  thing. 

;<  I  hate  North  Combe — what  d'you  think  of  that 
now?  " 

'  I  think  'tis  the  first  wicked  fib  you've  told  me 
since  we  were  married." 

"  I  hate  it,  because  it's  too  small,  Charlie — far  too 
small  for  a  man  like  you.  I  mean  that.  I  want  you 
to  have  a  bigger  farm  and  bigger  views  and  bigger 
everything." 

"  You  greedy  rascal !  My  views  not  big  enough — 
eh?  My  views  about  loving  you  not  big  enough? 
I'm  a  bad  husband  in  fact — a  sour,  curmudgeonly  old 
devil  that  keeps  his  poor  little  ill-used  wife — " 

Her  arms  were  round  his  neck  again  and  she  stopped 
him  with  kisses. 

"  Be  serious,"  she  said,  "  and  let  me  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning." 

"  I  won't  be  serious.  I  didn't  marry  you  to  be 
serious.  The  serious  part  was  courting.  Thank  God 
that's  over.  What  torments  you  did  give  me!  But 
now  I've  got  you  for  ever  and  ever — serious?  No, 
not  likely." 

"  I  mean  it — a  bigger  farm — worthy  of  you  and 
your  amazing  cleverness  at  all  farming.  And  then 
you'll  get  bigger  views." 

"  All  in  good  time.  The  first  thing  is  a  bigger 
purse.  We  mustn't  quarrel  with  our  bread  and  but- 
ter, Lizzie.  If  I  left  North  Combe,  'twould  be  '  good- 
bye '  to  Uncle  Abraham.  And  I  ban't  hungry  for 
more.  I  want  to  provide  against  less.  Good  luck 
never  lasts  for  ever.  But  don't  you  pull  a  long  face — 
don't  you  pout — all  in  good  time.  You  shall  have  a 
coach  and  four  horses,  and  rings  on  your  fingers  and 
bells  on  your  toes  yet,  if  I'm  anybody." 

The  glamour  of  the  possession  of  a  man  was  still 
upon  her.  She  made  no  further  effort  then.  But 
she  was  unhappy  in  secret.     She   could   not  under- 


rp 


THE   BEACON  169 

stand  herself.  Trevail  had  never  thrown  dust  in  her 
eyes  before  they  were  married:  only  her  love  for  him 
had  blinded  her  then ;  but  now — now  that  they  were  one 
— it  seemed  as  though  a  little  of  his  weakness  was 
stealing  into  her.  She  felt  it — she  felt  his  power  to 
silence  her  with  laughter,  and  his  masculine  scorn  of 
her  seriousness.  This  was  not  good  to  her  and  she 
began  to  be  ashamed  of  herself  and  her  supinity.  Had 
some  of  her  strength  gone  into  him  in  exchange  for 
his  weakness,  she  might  easier  have  tolerated  the  situa- 
tion; but  from  the  enervations  of  their  love  and  com- 
mon worship,  there  came  only  something  of  his  spirit 
into  hers,  nothing  of  her  spirit  into  his. 

She  felt  that  not  for  this  she  had  wedded  Charles 
Trevail.  The  Sunday  under  the  trees  was  a  mark 
on  her  road  henceforth.  It  stood  for  the  hour  when 
she  began  to  struggle  with  the  cloying  love  that  threat- 
ened to  drown  her.  She  knew  that  she  was  power- 
less to  help  either  herself  or  Trevail  while  she  was 
content  to  bathe  in  these  sweet  waters ;  she  became 
alive  to  what  appeared  a  danger.  She  told  him  as 
they  walked  onward  together  presently  that  love  was 
precious,  but  a  thing  to  be  kept  in  bounds  and  har- 
nessed to  high  issues. 

"  We've  got  souls  as  well  as  bodies,  Charlie,"  she 
said.  "  I'm  not  going  to  have  you  sing  small  all  your 
life,  I  promise  you.  If  happiness  is  to  make  us  cow- 
ards, then  let's  taste  a  bit  of  trouble." 

"You  pretty,  brave  bit  of  loveliness!  Isn't  that 
just  what  I'm  telling  you?  Don't  you  know  we  must 
taste  trouble  sooner  or  later?  That's  a  dish  nobody 
may  refuse,  for  if  we  don't  clip  in  it  with  the  best 
grace  we  can,  Providence  crams  us — like  we  cram 
poultry.  Ha — ha — ha — we'll  be  miserable  all  right 
presently!  But,  hang  it  all,  to  think  my  clever 
Lizzie  wants  to  taste  before  her  turn!  Happiness 
won't  make  cowards  of  us — we're  not  the  cowardly 
sort.     But  you  can  learn  a  lot  through  happiness,  just 


170  THE  BEACON 

as  well  as  through  trouble;  and  if  happiness  don't 
teach  anything  else.  I  reckon  it  teaches  the  worth  of 
being  happy.  Let's  be  happy  all  we  can  and  every 
moment  we  can — that's  what  I  say.  Why,  good  God 
— I  hate  sleeping  all  night  when  I  wake  up  and  see 
what's  in  my  bed  beside  me!  Sleep — 'tis  to  miss  hear- 
ing you  breathe — 'tis  so  much  precious  time  wasted 
from  happiness — 'tis  just  to  be  dead  when  I  might  be 
alive." 

"  We've  been  married  nearly  a  year  and  I  begin  to 
feel  it's  time  we  took  it  differently." 

"  You  naughty  woman !  I'll  kiss  you  again,  afore 
them  men  coming  down  the  road,  if  you  talk  like 
that." 

"  Then  leave  it  there,"  she  said.  "  You're  in  your 
schoolboy  humour  to-day,  and  so  a  sensible  woman, 
like  I  am,  is  wasted  on  you.  But  I'll  get  you  on  the 
Beacon  next  Sunday — up  in  the  cairn.  Then  'twill 
be  my  turn  and  you'll  have  to  listen  to  reason." 

"  Listen — yes — to  your  blackbird's  voice.  Be  I  ever 
tired  of  it?" 

"  I  hope  you  never  will  be." 

"  'Tis  the  only  music  that  I  ever  want  to  hear,"  he 
said. 

Her  heart  warmed  to  him.  The  road  was  empty 
again.     She  put  up  her  face  to  be  kissed. 

Yet  she  felt  the  failure.  It  braced  her — perhaps 
more  than  a  semblance  of  success  might  have  done. 
Some  shadowy  concession  or  promise  of  considera- 
tion from  her  husband  had  perhaps  left  her  elated 
and  impressed  with  the  idea  that,  after  all,  her  great 
life's  task  was  not  to  be  so  difficult  as  she  had  feared. 
But  this  laughing  attitude — this  muffling  of  every  real 
thing  with  kisses — irked  her.  Even  as  the  caress  that 
she  had  herself  invited  fell  now  upon  her  lips,  the 
woman's  smothered  spirit  struggled  to  get  free.  She 
knew  the  truth  and  felt  the  change ;  but  for  that  day 
she  did   no  more.     His  love  and   worship  were  un- 


THE  BEACON  171 

utterably  precious  to  her  and  she  believed  that  life 
would  be  worthless  if  they  vanished  from  it.  There- 
fore she  retired  within  her  own  soul  after  that  hour 
and  for  the  time  being  gave  him  the  victory.  She 
noted,  however,  how  he  took  it — in  a  large,  indiffer- 
ent, good-humoured  spirit.  He  accepted  her  silence 
on  the  unpleasant  theme,  not  as  a  triumph  for  him, 
but  as  a  thing  inevitable  between  them.  He  had  won 
by  laughing  and  kissing.  There  had  been  no  need  to 
put  out  his  powers.  But  did  he  possess  powers  ?  She 
knew  that  laughing  and  kissing  do  not  conquer  the 
world.  She  had  heard  indeed  that  love  can.  But 
then  what  was  the  whole  truth  about  love?  There 
was  so  much  to  learn  still,  and  the  time  had  come  for 
learning. 

He  took  her  to  the  ford  and  there  together  they 
sat  in  a  secret  place — a  nest  of  fern,  where  thickets  of 
thorn  skirted  the  shallows  and  the  river  wound  be- 
tween flowery  margins.  From  here  the  lovers  could 
see  Cosdon's  mighty  mound  rising  above  the  river 
valley  and  the  woodlands  that  girdled  it. 

The  Beacon  had  entered  upon  one  of  its  moments 
of  colour  and  the  sunshine  of  early  evening  warmed 
the  mass  into  a  glowing  whole.  The  highest  lights 
were  on  the  heath  that  burned  to  redness  under  the 
serial  glow.  To  the  crown  of  the  hill  light  shone,  and 
where  its  southern  shoulder  fell,  smoke  of  fire  spread 
in  a  transparent  blue  veil  and  ascended  rosily  in  the 
light  that  came  over  the  edge  of  the  hill.  All  the  east- 
ern sky  was  blue. 

Elisabeth  held  Trevail's  hand,  but  her  eyes  were 
lifted  to  the  high  places.     Silence  fell  between  them. 

"  How  beautiful  it  looks  to-night,"  she  said. 

"  Not  so  beautiful  as  a  cup  of  tea  will,"  he  an- 
swered. "  And,  as  for  your  old  hill,  I  grant  it  looks 
fine  seen  afar  off;  and  the  further  off  the  better. 
That  place  would  be  the  ruin  of  you,  body  and  soul, 
if  I  hadn't  come  between.     And  very  well  you  know 


172  THE  BEACON 

it,  you  silly,  soaring  creature !  I  won't  have  you  fly 
no  further  than  my  arms,  Lizzie.  The  nest  be  the 
place  for  the  mated  bird,  and  my  arms  be  your  nest, 
you  darling  dear." 

"  I  know  it,  Charlie,  I  know  it,"  she  told  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  FORTNIGHT  later  Trevail's  wife  was  daw- 
dling in  the  quarry  alone.  Her  husband  re- 
fused to  go  out  after  Sunday  dinner  and  declared  that 
he  had  eaten  too  much  and  must  sleep.  She  left  him 
and  started  for  the  Beacon;  then  accident  modified  her 
purpose. 

There  were  a  dozen  little  children  playing  in  the 
quarry  and  Elisabeth  joined  them  and  warned  them 
of  danger  in  the  steep  places. 

;<  Come  over  here,"  she  said.  "If  you  were  to  slip, 
you'd  break  your  necks.  There's  plenty  of  black- 
berries this  side." 

They  followed  her  and  she  was  directing  them  when 
loud  voices  fell  upon  her  ear  and,  looking  upward, 
she  saw  two  men  in  the  larches  that  plumed  the 
quarry  crest.  One  she  recognized  as  the  lord  of  the 
manor  and  owner  of  the  quarry ;  the  other  was  Abra- 
ham Mortimore.  He  spoke  in  anger ;  but  the  younger 
man  laughed.  They  separated  presently  and  Lizzie's 
uncle  descended  into  the  quarry,  while  the  owner  went 
over  the  hill  to  Oxenham  House. 

Mortimore,  who  was  in  his  work-a-day  clothes,  had 
seen  the  woman  and  children  below  and  now  advanced 
upon  them.  Lizzie  quickly  perceived  that  he  was  in 
a  rage  and  prepared  to  withstand  him. 

"  I  was  telling  these  little  ones  to  keep  away  from 
the  dangerous  places,"  she  said  as  he  arrived. 

"  Was  you?  Then  you'd  better  have  told  them  to 
keep  away  altogether.  I'm  not  going  to  have  the 
young  devils  here  stealing  my  blackberries.  Money's 
dirt  to  you  no  doubt,  because  you're  a  fool — Begone! 
and  if  I  see  you  here  again,  I'll  wring  your  necks!  ' 

i73 


174  THE  BEACON 

This  last  threat  was  addressed  to  the  children.  A 
few  of  them  who  had  already  met  with  Mr.  Morti- 
more  to  their  detriment,  were  fled  already;  but  half 
a  dozen  little  girls  and  an  infant  remained  with 
Lizzie. 

Now  one  screamed  at  the  terrifying  aspect  of  the 
foe,  and  all  hastened  away  with  fear  on  their  small 
faces.  The  incident  served  to  tune  the  woman  to  a 
passage-of-arms  she  had  long  expected.  She  was  not 
in  a  good  humour  and  now  accosted  Mortimore  in  a 
manner  that  astonished  him. 

"  You  coward !  "  she  said.  "  Isn't  it  enough  always 
to  be  brow-beating  and  frightening  men  and  women? 
Must  you  bully  the  babies  too?  Because  yonder  man 
wasn't  afeared  of  you  but  laughed  at  your  anger,  you 
must  come  to  vent  it  on  a  woman  and  children.  What 
harm  are  the  little  ones  doing  any  more  than  I  am? 
Can't  they  pick  a  handful  of  blackberries  without  mak- 
ing you  behave  like  a  wild  animal  ?  " 

"That's  your  sort  is  it?  I  thought  it  was!  I've 
known  we  should  clash  and  kock  up  a  few  sparks 
sooner  or  late.  Now  list  to  me.  If  you  talk  like 
that  to  me  again  I'll  turn  you  out  of  North  Combe 
neck  and  crop.  And  more:  you're  my  nephew's  wife 
now  and  I  expect  from  you  what  I  expect  from  him, 
and  I  will  have  it  as  a  right.  If  you  think  to  speak 
to  me  as  you  used  to  speak  to  the  people  behind 
the  public-house  bar,  you  make  a  very  big  mistake. 
You've  thrown  in  your  lot  with  Charles  Trevail,  and 
you  don't  know  what  that  means  yet.  But  I'll  show 
you." 

"  I  married  him — not  you.  If  I  can  get  him  to  see 
you  as  you  are,  I  shall  do.  I'm  trying  all  the  time  to 
make  him  a  man." 

"  Don't  you  talk.  Listen — as  becomes  you. 
D'you  think  I'm  going  to  argue  with  you  more  than  I 
argue  with  him?  My  will's  law,  and  if  you  shirk  it, 
down  you'll  go.     Take  that  man  from  me  and  the 


THE  BEACON  175 

workhouse  is  all  you'll  find  to  cover  his  soft  head. 
You've  got  woman's  wits  anyway.  There's  cunning 
in  you,  else  you'd  never  have  took  up  with  him.  D'you 
think  I  don't  see  through  you?  And  now  I  order 
you  to  do  your  share  of  my  work.  I  didn't  let  him 
marry  you  for  nothing.  You've  got  to  suit  your  neck 
to  the  collar,  my  fine,  flashing-eyed  creature ;  you've 
got  to  do  your  share  for  me — such  work  as  a  woman 
can  do.  Blackberries  are  plenty  this  year,  and  next 
time  you  load  your  market  cart  of  Okehampton,  see 
that  four  good  quarts  of  my  berries  go  too.  My 
berries — do'e  hear?  I  look  for  three  shilling  and  not 
less.  And  what's  over  you  may  put  in  your  pocket. 
So  now  then !  " 

Elisabeth  was  frankly  amused  to  think  that  the  great 
collision  she  had  so  long  anticipated  should  come  about 
over  a  matter  so  ridiculous.  Mr.  Mortimore's  moun- 
tains of  rage  often  produced  such  mice  as  this.  He 
lacked  all  sense  of  proportion  and  could  be  as  wroth 
about  nothing  as  the  most  vital  issue. 

"  You  mean  you  want  me — me — to  come  out  here 
caddling  about  and  wasting  my  time  to  pick  black- 
berries for  you?  " 

"  I  mean  that,"  he  answered.  "  And  I  intend  it. 
You've  giving  yourself  too  many  airs  and  forgetting 
the  dirt  you  sprang  from.  If  you  intend  to  be  a  good 
wife  to  Charles  Trevail,  you'll  have  to  be  a  good  niece 
to  me.  Your  fate  is  in  my  hand  and  your  husband's 
fate  is  in  yours.  At  this  rate  he'll  damned  soon  have 
to  make  a  choice  between  you  and  me;  and  if  I  know 
him  he  won't  hesitate.  So  you  pick  my  blackberries 
as  a  start  and  find  your  proper  place  afore  we  go  any 
further." 

"  You'd  better  learn  a  bit  about  me  now,"  she  an- 
swered quietly.  "  You've  poured  out  your  rude  in- 
sults for  five  minutes  and  seem  to  think  I'm  only  on 
the  level  of  sheep  and  cattle  or  dogs  to  be  ordered 
about   by    you.     You   tell    me    I    sprang    from    dirt. 


176  THE  BEACON 

You're  a  liar.  I'm  better  than  you  anyway,  for  my 
parents  were  sane,  human  creatures  and  yours  might 
have  been  a  pair  of  lunatics  to  judge  by  you.  And 
you  say  you'll  have  my  husband  and  me  away  from 
North  Combe  if  I'm  not  careful.  Well,  that's  what 
I  want  to  happen  more  than  anything  on  God's 
earth !  He's  thrown  away  in  a  two-penny  half-penny 
place  like  North  Combe,  and  if  you  drive  him  out  of  it 
you'll  only  be  doing  what  I'm  trying  to  do;  and  if 
you  can't,  I  will — sooner  or  late.  So  we  think  alike 
there ;  and  as  for  your  berries,  you  silly  man,  you  for- 
get yourself  and  you  forget  who  you're  talking  to. 
Gather  your  berries  yourself,  if  you  can't  do  better 
with  your  time." 

He  stared. 

"  By  God !  "  he  said.  "  I'd  like  to  strangle  you, 
you  bitch !  " 

"  Try  and  be  civil.  Men  don't  strangle  women 
nowadays — not  for  a  quart  of  blackberries  anyway. 
I'm  glad  we've  had  this  row.  I  was  feeling  wicked 
to-day  and  it's  done  me  good.  And  you  came  down 
the  hill  pretty  wicked  also.  Have  as  many  quarrels 
with  me  as  you  please.  I  like  them.  I  know  what 
you  feel.  I  feel  the  same  often  and  often.  You 
want  to  make  things  bend  to  you;  so  do  I.  But  you 
won't  make  me  bend.  I'll  never  bend  to  your 
sort." 

"  Then  you'll  be  broke,"  he  said.  "  You'll  be  scat 
abroad  and  cast  in  pieces,  like  cracked  cloam.  I've 
no  patience  to  have  any  truck  with  a  cheeky  girl  not 
twenty-five,  and  you  needn't  think  it.  Pick  them 
blackberries  for  me  you  shall;  and,  come  winter,  you 
shall  pluck  the  sloan  off  the  blackthorns  for  me  and 
scratch  your  eyes  out  doing  it  for  all  I  care.  Slaves — 
slaves,  that's  what  you  and  your  husband  be,  and  the 
sooner  you  know  it  the  better.  I've  waited  and  waited 
and  give  you  enough  rope ;  but  I  knew  by  your  saucy 
nature  'twould  come  to  this.     So  now  it  stands  on  a 


THE  BEACON  177 

simple  turn.     You  pick  them  blackberries  afore  next 
Saturday,  or  'twill  be  the  worse  for  you." 

"  You're  behind  the  times,"  she  answered.  "  Tis 
strange  that  such  a  clever,  wide-awake  man  as  you, 
Uncle  Mortimore,  shouldn't  know  where  the  world 
has  got  to.  It's  left  you  all  behind.  Women  aren't  or- 
dered about  nowadays.  You  men  have  taught  us 
quite  differently.  We're  what  you  made  us,  and 
you've  made  us  think  for  ourselves  and  take  our  own 
views  and  go  our  own  ways.  We  don't  pick  black- 
berries just  because  we're  told  to.  I  can't  pick  your 
blackberries  for  you,  but  you  may  gather  some  for  me 
if  you  like.  Gather  'em  this  minute!  You  haven't 
had  the  decency  to  put  on  your  Sunday  black  yet,  so 
you  won't  hurt  yourself.  Pick  'em,  and  I'll  go  and 
get  a  basket." 

"  D'you  want  we  to  fling  you  down  that  quarry?  " 

'  Use  your  wits,  uncle,  and  don't  ask  silly  questions 
like  that.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want;  but  not  now. 
I  can  help  you  a  great  deal  if  you'll  let  me,  because 
I  know  a  great  many  things  you  don't  know  that  will 
be  useful  to  you.  But  we  must  understand  where  we 
are.  We  both  want  to  help  Charlie  I  suppose ;  but 
we're  too  far  apart  as  yet  to  do  it.  While  you  talk 
nonsense  and  think  nonsense  about  us  being  slaves, 
we  can't  do  any  good  for  you." 

"True  I  tell  you!  Slaves  you  are  and  slaves  you 
shall  be  and — and — pick  them  blackberries  or  you'll 
feel  the  weight  of  my  hand !  " 

"  'Tis  only  tigers  and  wolves  talk  like  that  among 
themselves.  You'll  go  to  church  to-night?  Well, 
come  in  and  have  supper  with  us  after.  You  never 
have  yet,  and  you'll  be  welcome." 

'  Don't  you  think  to  come  over  me  like  that,"  he 
growled.  "  Be  I  the  sort  to  break  bread  with 
people?  " 

'  No ;  but  you  might  learn.  You're  so  narrow- 
minded.     Why,  you'd  make  twice  as  much  money  if 


178  THE  BEACON 

you  spent  twice  as  much.  Tis  all  cheese-parings  and 
green  stuff  out  of  the  hedges,  your  savings.  If  you 
come  to  me,  I'd  soon  make  you  take  larger  views." 

He  stared  savagely,  stupidly  at  her,  like  an  animal 
cornered. 

"  Pick  them  blackberries !  '  he  thundered  again, 
"  and  if  you  don't,  you  shall  have  hell  for  your  pains." 

"  You've  been  practising  selfishness  for  fifty  years 
so  no  doubt  you've  grown  pretty  clever  at  it,"  she 
answered ;  "  but  that's  not  the  way  to  get  on.  'Tis 
a  very  silly  idea  to  think  you  can  play  a  lone  hand. 
Come  to  me  and  I'll  enlarge  your  mind  a  great  deal. 
Why,  Charlie  could  teach  you  a  thousand  things 
you'd  do  well  to  learn !  Get  a  bit  more  modern  :  that's 
what  you  must  try  to  do — else  you'll  be  left  all  be- 
hind— with  the  foxes  and  wild  things.  We  want  to 
be  friends;  we  want  nothing  better  than  that.  Is  it 
likely  that  I  should  wish  Charlie  to  quarrel  with  you 
unless  he's  got  to  do  it?  But  if  you  mean  to  treat 
him  as  a  slave,  then  'tis  about  time  we  stirred  our- 
selves I'm  sure.     Be  reasonable — " 

But  he  ended  the  argument  then  by  an  appeal  to 
force.  He  leapt  forward  and  boxed  Lizzie's  ears 
with  an  open  palm.  He  hit  hard  and  sent  her  stagger- 
ing from  left  to  right  with  one  blow,  then  steadied  her 
with  another.  Her  ears  burnt  like  fire  and  her  hear- 
ing was  disturbed.  The  outrage  left  her  staggering 
— panting,  blushing  with  rage. 

"  Pick  them  blackberries !  "  he  cried  for  the  last 
time,  "  and  never  more  do  you  dare  to  talk  to  me." 

She  sank  down  dazed  on  a  stone  above  the  quarry 
and  he  went  off;  but  if  her  mind  endured  storm,  it 
was  nothing  to  the  tempest  in  his.  Him  she  under- 
stood. She  had  only  erred  in  her  estimate  of  his  irra- 
tionalism ;  she  had  only  over-estimated  his  power  of 
self-control  before  assault.  But  her  sharp,  clean- 
turned  words  had  utterly  staggered  him  and  shaken 
up  his  estimates  of  life  and   his   values   in  general. 


THE   BEACON  179 

His  rage  had  risen  from  a  muddy,  distracted  sense 
that  she  was  stronger  than  he,  that  the  thoughts  she 
stabbed  into  him  were  true;  that  he  had  missed  what 
she  possessed.  The  brute  in  him  arose  before  this 
contemptuous  attack.  He  had  lost  his  temper  and 
now  went  off  like  a  dog  who  has  bitten  a  man  and 
bolted.  The  dog  knows  dimly  that  there  must  come 
a  day  of  reckoning  for  this ;  and  Abraham  Mortimore 
knew  it.  He  had  not  met  such  an  enemy  before — 
an  enemy  who  offered  friendship.  His  sex  instinct 
was  non-existent  and  no  sense  of  chivalry  controlled 
his  actions.  He  dimly  felt,  as  perhaps  a  bullock  feels 
when  butting  a  heifer,  that  you  must  not  strike  a 
woman  as  hard  as  a  man — that  in  the  one  case  an  open 
palm  may  be  used,  where  a  fist  is  the  natural  weapon 
in  the  other ;  but  beyond  that  he  had  scarcely  reached. 
A  sense  of  bewilderment  crowded  down  upon  him 
now,  that  he  could  have  raised  his  hand  at  all  in  a 
matter  of  mere  words  between  himself  and  a  woman. 
What  had  she  said  to  provoke  him  beyond  words? 
He  seldom  resorted  to  violence  unless  beaten  in  argu- 
ment. And  how  had  she  beaten  him?  "She  made 
me  feel  a  fool,"  he  thought.  "And  I'll  stand  that 
from  no  living  creature."  But  then  he  resented  his 
own  criticism  of  the  event.  None  living  had  ever  made 
him  feel  a  fool  before;  and  was  it  left  to  a  girl  to 
do  it?  He  remembered  his  experience  of  the  lion- 
tamer  and  the  leopard  and  what  he  had  learned  and 
practised  as  a  result  of  it.  But  now  he  felt  that  the 
postions  were  reversed.  He  was  the  leopard.  "  But 
she'll  not  dare  again,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Damn 
the  little  toad ;  she  won't  court  my  claws  again !  To 
try  to  tame  me — 'tis  her  to  be  the  fool  when  all's  said, 
to  think  such  madness.  But  she've  had  her  lesson." 
He  could  not,  however,  by  taking  thought  calm  the  un- 
easiness in  his  mind. 

As   fur  Elisabeth,  with  singing  ears  and  a  painful 
headache  she  sat  on  until  the  discomfort  lessened  ;  then 


180  THE  BEACON 

she  turned  homeward  and  found  her  husband  in  the 
best  of  tempers  waiting  for  his  tea.  He  was  in  the 
garden  and  had  just  picked  her  a  great  pear.  She 
said  nothing  of  what  had  happened  but  waited  to  do 
so  until  her  own  mind  had  grown  a  little  clearer  upon 
the  subject.  She  was  questioning  her  past  attitude 
to  Mortimore  and  asking  herself  in  what  she  had 
erred.  Actual  physical  violence  from  a  man  to  a 
woman  seemed  a  preposterous  notion — crude  and 
brutal.  She  had  heard  such  things  of  her  husband's 
uncle,  but  had  not  dreamed  that  they  could  be  true. 
The  revelation  astounded  and  bewildered  her.  She 
felt  little  anger  at  first — no  more  than  one  feels  with 
a  refractory  child.  What  to  do  next  was  the  problem 
in  her  thoughts.  Life,  she  told  herself,  was  now 
about  to  become  an  earnest  thing  and  a  difficult.  She 
must  begin  to  work — to  work  upon  the  rich  material 
of  her  husband's  love.  What  would  he  do,  she  won- 
dered, on  receiving  news  of  this  assault?  She  did 
not  know,  and  she  told  herself  that  it  was  absurd  that 
she  did  not  know.  There  could  be  no  shadow  of 
doubt  what  a  husband's  attitude  to  the  event  should 
be.  Provocation?  What  provocation  could  justify 
a  man  in  striking  a  woman  thus?  She  grew  angry 
gradually;  she  even  found  herself  annoyed  with  Tre- 
vail — not  for  anything  that  he  had  done,  but  for  what 
he  might  do.  Then  she  came  to  a  sweeter  mind,  and 
decided  to  tell  him  calmly  of  what  had  happened,  at  a 
later  hour,  when  she  was  further  removed  from  the 
event  and  could  consider  it  with  more  self-control. 
He  perceived  that  there  was  something  on  her  mind 
and  asked  for  information ;  but  she  put  him  off.  She 
admitted  that  an  incident  had  vexed  her  and  promised 
to  speak  of  it  at  the  end  of  the  day. 

They  went  to  church  in  the  evening  and  sat  in  a 
familiar  pew.  There  was  a  monument  opposite  them, 
the  only  object  in  the  building  that  held  any  charm 
for  Elisabeth.     The   mural   tablet  told   that   beneath 


THE  BEACON  181 

lay  the  body  of  "  William  Oxenham,  Gent.,  who  was 
buried  Feb.  19,  1731,  aged  52,  and  by  will  gave  five 
hundred  pounds  yearly  to  the  poor  of  the  parish  of 
Southtawton  for  ever." 

The  finality  of  this  always  impressed  her  and  in 
some  subtle  fashion  produced  an  impression  of  pleas- 
ure. To-night,  however,  she  was  distracted.  Her 
Uncle  Abraham  also  came  to  church,  and  from  his 
place  continually  caught  her  eye  and  blared  at  her. 
She  strove  to  look  away  from  him,  but  an  unpleasant 
fascination  again  and  again  drew  her  gaze ;  and  when 
she  looked,  she  found  that  he  was  also  looking  with 
a  scowl  upon  his  features.  She  felt  helpless  before 
him  now.  He  had  revived  a  Neolithic  attitude  to 
woman,  and  her  weapons,  if  equal  to  coping  with  the 
man  of  her  time,  were  powerless  before  this  primitive 
spirit.  She  told  herself  that  '  Iron  '  Mortimore  ought 
to  be  horse-whipped,  but  certainly  Trevail  was  not  the 
one  to  undertake  such  a  task.  Of  course  no  younger 
man  could  lift  his  hand  to  the  veteran.  The  whole 
situation  was  grotesque.  It  belonged  to  another  time 
and  another  people.  Once  a  sense  of  absurdity  nearly 
made  her  laugh  aloud.  The  folk  were  singing  a  hymn 
and  her  merriment  was  concealed;  but  Mortimore  saw 
it.  She  was  smiling  broadly  to  herself  at  the  thought 
of  having  her  ears  boxed  for  plain  speaking,  and  he 
marked  her  amusement.  It  angered  him  as  further 
insolence ;  but  it  did  Lizzie  good.  She  believed  that  at 
last  she  had  come  to  the  right  way  of  looking  upon 
this  extraordinary  incident.  She  now  knew  more  of 
the  man  with  whom  she  had  to  deal.  She  would  not 
err  again.  He  must  be  managed  differently.  He 
must  be  treated  as  a  child,  humoured,  coaxed,  dealt 
with  tenderly.  The  truth  only  made  him  lose  his 
temper.  And  that  was  a  thing  of  all  others  to  be 
avoided.  She  felt  that  until  Mortimore  was  educated, 
little  could  be  hoped  for.  Her  main  task  seemed  to 
.shift  its  centre  from  diaries  'Prevail  to  his  uncle. 


182  THE  BEACON 

That  night,  when  they  were  gone  to  bed,  she  told 
her  husband  much  that  happened  in  the  quarry,  but 
not  all.  She  described  her  attitude  and  Mortimore's 
anger;  but  she  did  not  mention  that  he  had  struck  her. 

Trevail  listened  with  deep  interest. 

"  'Twas  a  very  dangerous  thing  to  do,"  he  said. 
"  You  really  must  be  careful,  Lizzie.  You  don't 
know  him  yet,  or  you'd  not  have  dared  to  beard  him 
like  that.  You  under-value  his  cleverness  too.  No 
wonder  he  was  in  a  rage.  Whatever  were  you  think- 
ing about?  " 

"  The  future,"  she  answered.  "  I'm  not  a  wooden 
doll,  Charlie ;  I've  dawdled  and  wasted  time  here 
enough.  There  must  be  something  all  wrong  all  round 
when  that  man  can  tell  me  seriously  to  spend  my  time 
picking  blackberries  for  him." 

"  'Twas  only  his  rough  way  of  showing  you  he  had 
the  power." 

"  Was  it  ?  Well,  I've  been  angry  once  to-day  and 
I'm  not  going  to  be  again;  but  you  must  be  clear, 
Charlie,  before  we  go  to  sleep.  Do  you  want  me  to 
pick  blackberries  for  your  uncle,  or  do  you  think,  as 
your  wife  and  a  responsible  creature,  that's  not  proper 
work  for  me?  " 

"  Of  course  it  isn't.  You  do  get  so  deadly  serious 
over  things.  I  lay  'twas  only  his  joke.  You'd  riled 
him  and  he's  not  a  patient  man,  so  he  riled  you  back 
and  talked  that  nonsense  and  pretended  he  was  in 
earnest." 

"  He  never  pretends." 

"  Then — then  I  must  talk  to  him — I  suppose — I — " 

He  broke  off  and  showed  irritation. 

"  I  wish  to  God  this  hadn't  happened.  'Tis  a  thou- 
sand pities,  so  clever  as  you  are,  you  can't  get  on  the 
blind  side  of  him.  I  see  now  why  he  was  scowling  at 
us  in  church.  I  suppose  he  thinks  I  knew  all  this  and 
am  taking  your  part." 

Lizzie  started. 


THE  BEACON  183 

"And  aren't  you  taking  my  part?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  no  part,"  he  answered.  '*  I 
want  for  us  to  go  on  steady  and  quiet  as  we  have  been. 
You  must  try  to  see  how  that  man  looks  to  me  and 
how  I  look  to  him.  I  owe  him  everything,  and  I'm 
the  only  friend  he's  got  in  the  world.  And  if  you  are 
going  to  be  different  and  cut  him  up  and  anger  him, 
then  God  knows  what  he'll  do  and  where  we'll  be  this 
time  next  year." 

"  You've  got  money  saved.  Can't  you  stand 
alone?" 

"  There's  such  a  thing  as  gratitude.  I'll  hear  no 
more  of  this.  I'm  not  going  to  quarrel  with  him ;  and 
more  are  you.  I'm  very  sorry  he  was  surly  and  I  wish 
I'd  been  there  to  temper  it.  I'm  only  thankful  you 
didn't  agg  him  on  to  strike  you.  It  wouldn't  have 
surprised  me  and  if  that  had  happened,  knowing  you 
as  I  do,  I  can  guess  that  all  the  fat  would  have  been  in 
the  fire  with  a  vengeance." 

"  We  must  know  each  other  better  even  yet, 
Charlie." 

He  clasped  her  close  to  him  and  kissed  her  neck  and 
kept  his  face  against  her. 

"  You  blessed  thing — yes,  better  and  better  and 
sweeter  and  sweeter  we'll  know  each  other !  And 
don't  you  think  I'm  not  your  side  body  and  soul. 
What's  life  to  me  away  from  you?  What's  a  million 
uncles  and  a  million  farms  to  me  against  you  ?  You'll 
never  know — I  swear  you  never  will — all  that  you  are 
to  me.     There's  nothing  else  in  the  world  that  counts 

but  you — nothing.     And  you'll  live  to  know  it,  Liz- 

_•    >> 
zie. 

She  was  comforted. 

"  I  believe  that,"  she  said.  "  I  do  believe  it.  And 
you  mustn't  think  that  I'm  only  a  picture  on  a  wall — 
to  keep  inside  my  frame  whatever  happens.  I'm  half 
yourself,  and  I'm  going  to  do  half  the  work  and  have 
half  the  trouble  and  half  the  blame  and  half  the  praise 


184  THE  BEACON 

and  everything.     I  didn't  handle  him  right  perhaps. 
He's  different  to  any  other  man  I  ever  saw." 

"  Don't  handle  him  at  all.  Keep  clear  of  him.  He 
can  be  all  right  when  he's  in  a  good  humour.  We 
must  be  worldly  wise,  Lizzie.  Love  mustn't  blind  us 
to  facts.  I  want  to  keep  close  friends  with  my  uncle 
— if  it  can  be  done  without  losing  my  self-respect." 

"  The  very  thing,"  she  said.  "  'Tis  just  your  self- 
respect  I'm  jealous  for — yours  and  my  own.  They're 
the  same  for  that  matter." 

"  Of  course — of  course.    We'll  leave  it  at  that,  then." 

His  voice  told  her  how  thankful  he  felt  to  drop  the 
subject,  and  Elisabeth  ceased;  but  she  knew  that  her 
notion  and  her  husband's  of  what  constituted  self-re- 
spect were  as  yet  very  dissimilar.  She  asked  herself 
how  far  her  hand  would  stretch  to  meet  his — how  far 
he  must  rise  and  she  descend.  Then,  from  this  shadow 
of  concession,  she  turned  passionately  and  burnt  at 
heart  long  after  he  slept.  Could  it  be  that  already  she 
was  beginning  to  sink  from  her  lofty  standpoint  to 
meet  her  husband  on  some  dreary  common  ground — 
alike  painful  to  each?  Were  they  both  to  be  miser- 
able? Was  he  not  to  be  lifted  clear  of  his  own  easy 
ideals  into  the  finer  air  for  hers  ?  She  told  herself  that 
she  was  feeble  and  weak  to  let  the  word  '  concession ' 
enter  the  argument.  She  would  try  for  everything 
and  be  content  with  no  paltry  reciprocity.  For  his 
sole  sake  she  would  try. 

Her  sense  of  duty  kept  her  awake  until  dawn  and 
it  begot  much  mental  pain.  Little  demons  of  thought 
were  busy  in  the  darkness  with  tiny  chisels  between 
Elisabeth's  splendid  brows.  Not  forgotten  were  the 
Greek  moments  on  Cosdon,  but  implanted  instincts, 
sprung  from  a  far  heredity  of  introspective  and  soul- 
torturing  human  beings,  belonged  to  her  birthright. 
The  bugbear  of  '  duty '  was  all  that  her  parents  had 
been  able  to  leave  to  Elisabeth  Trevail,  and  already 
the  bequest  began  to  chill  her  heart  a  little. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  four  o'clock  on  a  morning  in  mid-winter  a  very 
wonderful  and  beautiful  night  picture  offered 
from  the  bedroom  window  of  Tom  Underhill.  Out 
of  the  great  darkness,  without  one  atom  of  detail  to 
disturb  it,  there  emerged  the  dim,  white-washed  face  of 
the  opposite  cottages,  and  such  light  as  never  leaves 
the  open  air,  even  at  darkest  hours,  was  gathered  mys- 
teriously here.  The  cottage  fronts  stared  out  of  noth- 
ing. Earth  and  sky  were  merged  into  an  absolute  and 
impenetrable  blank  and  in  the  midst  the  faint  plane 
of  white-wash  stood  ghostly  between  the  upper  and 
lower  gloom.  One  patch  of  white  paper  on  the  in- 
visible road  conveyed  the  idea  of  solidity  below ;  and 
above,  as  Underhill  looked  forth,  heaven  was  also  in- 
dicated, for,  through  a  rift  in  the  sky,  twinkled  the 
North  Star,  with  the  Dragon  swinging  round  it. 
Nothing  broke  the  infinity  of  space  between  the  tragic 
grey  faces  of  the  cots  and  the  remote  suns  that  ap- 
peared above  them;  for,  through  mighty  passages  of 
absolute  darkness,  the  eye  was  lifted  straight  from  the 
crepuscular  glimmer  of  the  whitewash  of  the  stars. 
They  and  the  human  home  and  the  atom  of  pallid  pa- 
per completed  the  picture  and  represented  all  that  was 
to  be  seen  of  the  universe  at  that  hour.  To  the  spec- 
tator, as  he  peered  forth,  it  seemed  as  nothing ;  yet  the 
spectacle  was  more  by  many  worlds  than  he  might  have 
witnessed  at  high  noon. 

Underhill  rose  and  dressed.  He  had  ceased  to  oc- 
cupy the  same  room  as  his  wife,  and  the  psychological 
result  of  that  separation  between  a  man  and  woman, 
wont  to  join  in  sleep,  ha4  served  to  hasten  a  moral 
and  spiritual  divorce. 

185 


186  THE  BEACON 

Now  the  man  was  leaving  his  wife  for  ever.  Their 
heads  would  not  so  much  as  rest  beneath  the  same 
roof  again.  She  did  not  know  it,  but  within  two  hours 
she  was  destined  to  do  so.  Where  she  slept  peace- 
fully, with  her  pressing  anxieties  forgotten  awhile, 
Care  waited  in  shape  of  a  letter  from  her  husband — 
husband  no  more. 

Underhill  rayed  himself,  then  went  downstairs.  He 
carried  a  small  portmanteau.  He  took  his  driving 
coat  from  a  peg  in  the  hall  of  the  inn,  let  himself  out 
and  soon  harnessed  a  horse  into  a  high  dog-cart.  No 
glimmer  of  dawn  as  yet  broke  night,  but  a  fine  rain 
began  to  fall.  He  led  his  horse  down  the  hill  and 
climbed  out  of  Zeal  on  the  eastern  side.  Already  a 
spark  or  two  of  fire  in  cottage  windows  told  that  the 
folk  were  rising. 

At  the  summit  of  the  hill  he  stopped  and  lighted 
his  lamps.  Then,  from  a  gate  by  the  way,  there  came 
a  woman  to  him.  She  was  enveloped  in  a  big  coat 
that  hid  her  shape  and  turned  her  into  one  amorphous 
smudge.  She  carried  a  '  hold-all/  and  her  hands  were 
cased  in  white  wool  gloves,  which  made  them  visible 
against  the  obscure  background  of  her  body. 

Underhill  took  her  bundle  and  put  it  at  the  back  of 
the  dog-cart.  Then  he  caressed  her.  Their  breath 
steamed  in  a  bright  fog  together  under  the  ray  of  the 
lamp. 

"Be  it  all  right,  Emma?" 

"  Quite  all  right,  Tom." 

"  You  didn't  forget  to  leave  a  letter  for  your 
father?" 

"  No." 

He  helped  her  into  the  trap,  then  mounted  himself. 
He  wrapped  a  rug  round  her  and  she  snuggled  close 
to  him.  Despite  her  coat  she  was  so  small  that  he 
could  put  his  arm  round  her  and  still  hold  the  reins 
with  it. 

They  started  on  a  trot  on  the  journey  to  Exeter. 


THE  BEACON  187 

Dawn  broke  tardily  and  the  grey  was  faintly  laced  with 
streaks  of  silver  above  the  eastern  hills.  They  had 
not  spoken  as  yet.     Then  the  man  broke  silence. 

"  We've  done  it,  Em,"  he  said. 

For  answer  she  lifted  up  her  face  and  kissed  his 
cheek. 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  Minnie's  reading  my  letter  this  minute." 

'  And  father's  waking  and  wondering  why  the  mis- 
chief he  don't  hear  anybody  about  down  house." 

"  I'm  going  to  do  all  that  mortal  man  can  do  for 
her." 

"  Trust  you  for  that.  She's  that  sensible — Mrs. 
Underhill. 

"  I  shall  always  respect  her  something  tremendous, 
Em." 

"  Yes,  Tom." 

"  What  d'you  reckon  that  she'll  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  She'll  pack  up  her  boxes  and  go  back  to  her  peo- 
ple." 

"  She'll  find  a  better  man  presently — eh?': 

"  No,  she  won't.  There's  none  better  than  you. 
She'll  find  a  different  man,  that's  all." 

"  I  doubt  whether  she'll  try  again." 

"  There  be  those  that  will  tempt  her  to." 

"  I  know  the  very  pattern  of  man  for  her,"  de- 
clared the  run-away  husband.  "  But  all  the  same  I'm 
very  doubtful  if  she'll  take  another.  She'll  divorce 
me,  and  after  that  I  don't  know  what  she'll  do." 

"  Now  let's  talk  about  us,"  said  Emma  Jope.  But 
he  was  too  tender-hearted  to  be  in  a  holiday  mood. 
The  sun  rolled  over  the  edge  of  the  horizon  presently 
and  the  dripping  hedge-rows  flamed  with  countless 
gems.  Ahead  the  road  glittered  and  the  harness  of 
the  horse  flashed. 

"What  a  beautiful  morning  'tis  going  to  be,"  said 
the  girl.  Then  she  grew  serious  to  see  that  he  re- 
mained so. 


188  THE  BEACON 

'  Don't  you  fret  for  her.  'Twill  be  no  very  cruel 
surprise.  She's  understood  these  many  days  how  it 
was  with  you.  None's  to  blame.  She'll  make  no 
scene.     She's  fine  and  proud." 

"  I've  offered  her  half  of  all  I've  got  in  the  world, 
Emma.  'Tis  hers  in  truth,  not  mine;  and  if  she 
was  to  refuse  it,  I'd  still  hold  it  hers  and  put  it  by  for 
her." 

"  She  may  refuse  it,  however." 

"  I  hope  not." 

Light  flooded  the  earth  and  life  was  afoot  again. 

"  You'll  be  wanting  your  breakfast,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head ;  then  she  burst  out,  "  Oh,  Tom, 
I  will  try  so  hard  to  make  you  happy !  " 

'Don't  I  know  it?  Don't  I  understand  how  'tis 
between  us?  You  love  me  all  right,  and  you  under- 
stand the  stuff  I'm  made  of.  There's  nought  grand 
or  pushful  or  hard  about  me.  I'm  just  common  mud, 
I  am,  and  'tis  no  good  axing  common  mud  to  be  china 
clay.     She  was  too  good  for  me,  Emma." 

"  No,  she  wasn't.  You  shan't  say  that  to  me,  Tom. 
She  was  too  different,  that's  all.  You  be  made  of  just 
so  good  stuff  as  she ;  and  so  be  I." 

"  You're  all  right.  We'll  leave  it  now.  Time  have 
got  to  pass  and  I've  got  you  for  my  very  own,  you 
dear  little  mite — that's  all  that  matters  to  me." 

"  I'd  go  through  fire  and  water  for  you,  Tom." 

"  Don't  begin  that  stuff.  I  don't  want  no  more  of 
that !  "  he  answered.  "  So  would  she — she's  said  that 
very  same  word.  Let's  have  no  more  fire  and  water 
talk.  I'm  common  mud,  I  tell  you,  and  I  will  be 
treated  so.  I  want  comfort  and  peace,  and  to  be  let 
go  my  own  humble  way.  I  want  to  wear  what  I  like 
and  eat  what  I  like  and  mess  along  just  as  I  please. 
And  if  you  be  content  to  take  me  as  I  am  and  feel 
satisfied,  then  I  shall  be  a  happy  man  and  you'll  be  a 
happy  woman.  But  if  you  think  to  alter  me  and 
worry  about  what  I  owe  to  myself  and  all  that  stuff, 


THE  BEACON  189 

that  frets  every  nerve  in  my  body — if  you  begin  upon 
me  like  that,  Emma,  then  'tis  '  good-bye  '  to  any  joy 
of  life  for  us." 

"  I  know — I  know." 

"  You're  young  for  me ;  but  you'll  make  me  ten 
years  younger  myself  in  six  months  and  I'll  make  you 
a  bit  older;  so  'twill  work  very  well,  please  God." 

"  '  Well '  ban't  the  word,  Tom.  I  love  you  and, 
what's  of  more  account  if  we'm  going  to  live  together, 
I  understand  you.  I've  always  been  terrible  interested 
in  the  men,  ever  since  I  was  a  little  one;  and  why  not? 
They'm  the  most  interesting  things  in  the  world  to  a 
woman — and  so  they  ought  to  be." 

"  I  suppose  they  are." 

"  Yes.  I  hungered  after  my  own  man  when  I  was 
sixteen,  and  my  father  said  it  was  beastly  unmaidenly 
in  me.  But  that's  how  'twas  and  I  always  liked  you, 
from  the  time  you  come  in  the  shop  and  chucked  me 
under  the  chin  and  kissed  me,  and  thought  I  was  a 
child  and  little  knew  that  I  was  a  grown  woman.  And 
your  good's  mine  now;  and  if  you  don't  care  to  wear 
new  clothes  I  shan't  want  to  see  you  in  'em ;  and  if 
you  call  me  I'll  come  to  you,  Tom,  and  your  right 
will  be  my  right  and  your  wrong  will  be  my  wrong. 
And  I  don't  care  no  more  about  what  any  other  per- 
son on  God's  earth  thinks  of  me  than  I  care  what  they 
sheep  thinks  of  me.     And  that's  how  I  stand." 

"  You  couldn't  say  nothing  to  suit  me  better,"  he 
answered.  "  And  for  my  part  I  believe  every  word 
you  say.  We've  knowed  each  other  pretty  close  in 
secret  this  longful  time ;  and  you  understand  the  sort 
of  easy  man  I  am,  and  I  understand  yon,  and  I  love 
you  body  and  soul.  I  never  thought  'twas  in  me  to 
love  two  women ;  but  it  was  to  be — along  of  nature 
saying  I  couldn't  do  justice  to  the  first.  And  if  I 
don't  suit  you  neither,  then  I  shall  reckon  there's  a 
screw  loose  in  me,  and  string  myself  up." 

"  You'll  have  to  behave  mighty  queer  not  to  suit 


190  THE  BEACON 

me,"  she  said.  "Who  be  I  to  fall  foul  of  a  man 
whose  chose  me — a  little  go-by-the-ground  creature 
you  could  put  in  your  pocket?  Tis  a  very  wonderful 
thing  you  ever  lowered  your  eyes  to  such  a  mite ;  and 
if  I  can't  pay  you  back  with  body  and  soul  and  life- 
long service,  I  ban't  worthy  to  lace  your  boots." 

"  I  don't  ask  for  nothing  impossible — just  to  be  let 
alone  to  work  out  my  own  life  my  own  way." 

They  said  no  more  and,  at  the  village  of  Cheriton 
Bishop,  Underhill  decided  they  would  take  breakfast. 

"  Be  you  known  here?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  be — very  well  known  in- 
deed. The  master  here  is  a  bachelor  with  a  great 
fondness  for  minding  his  own  business." 

Her  first  instinct  was  to  oppose  his  idea.  But  she 
did  not. 

"  'Tis  your  will  and  I'm  as  hungry  as  you,"  she  an- 
swered. He  alighted  and  helped  her  down.  Then  a 
boy  took  the  horse  and  they  went  in  together. 

Elsewhere  Mrs.  Underhill  had  risen  and  found  her 
husband's  letter  waiting  for  her.  There  was  a  look- 
ing-glass in  their  little  sitting-room  and  Tom  had 
thrust  his  missive  into  the  rim,  where  she  could  not 
fail  to  mark  it. 

Minnie  read  and  stood  there  alone  with  her  life  in 
ruins  round  her.  For  this  she  had  toiled ;  for  this 
she  had  fretted  her  brains  by  day  and  night;  for  this 
she  had  risen  early  and  late  taken  rest.  Her  cares 
had  recently  been  lulled  somewhat  by  Underhill,  and 
the  future  began  to  promise  more  hopefully.  Yet 
even  so  this  news  found  the  woman  not  very  greatly 
astonished.  Rumours  had  reached  her  through  her 
own  people.  The  Burgoynes  were  proud,  and  Tom's 
indifference  and  lack  of  what  they  took  to  be  a 
righteous  self-respect  had  fretted  Minnie's  parents  as 
well  as  herself.  She  had  felt  suspicious  at  his  very 
assiduity;  she  had   guessed   that   a  recent   access   of 


THE  BEACON  191 

amenity  and  tenderness  might  have  its  roots  in  other 
soil  than  her  heart.  Now  he  wrote  plainly,  hid  noth- 
ing, declared  that  he  was  going  to  live  with  Emma 
Jope,  who  understood  him  and  his  nature,  and  offered 
Minnie  half  his  money.  He  wished  to  be  reasonable 
and  just,  but  he  felt  that  their  lives  lived  together  were 
both  being  wrecked  and  he  hoped  that  she  would  see 
the  futility  of  a  continuance.  "  You  think  very 
meanly  of  me,"  he  wrote,  "  and  no  doubt  from  your 
point  of  view  I  am  pretty  well  everything  I  oughtn't 
to  be.  But  that's  not  pleasant  to  know.  And  if  a 
person  makes  you  stink  in  your  own  nostrils  and  feel 
ashamed  to  look  other  people  in  the  face,  then  that's 
not  the  person  you  ought  to  live  with.  You  are  much 
too  lofty-minded  and  all  that  to  get  any  satisfaction 
from  a  common  man  like  me ;  and  so  we  must  be  free 
to  try  again.  I've  got  what  I  want,  and  I  hope  you'll 
divorce  me  according  to  law  so  quick  as  you're  able, 
and  then  you  must  try  again  too.  Luckily  your  child 
died,  so  there's  nought  to  link  us  together  no  more." 

Minnie  read  all;  then  she  ate  her  breakfast  and  saw 
to  the  ordering  of  the  day's  work.  There  were  two 
lodgers  stopping  at  the  inn  and  she  heard  what  they 
needed.  She  let  it  be  known  that  her  husband  had 
gone  to  Exeter,  but  said  no  more  on  the  subject.  Then 
at  leisure  she  dressed  and  went  home  to  her  parents. 
Her  father  was  a  farmer  and  owned  land  two  miles 
from  Zeal. 

The  situation  was  received  with  marvellous  philoso- 
phy by  Minnie's  mother,  but  Fabian  Burgoyne  took 
it  in  another  spirit.  The  good  name  and  fame  of  his 
race  was  in  the  mire.  Such  a  catastrophe  had  never 
before  overtaken  the  family. 

Tom  Underbill  had  left  an  address  in  Exeter  and 
his  wife's  father  now  declared  an  intention  of  going 
there  to  see  him  before  the  day  was  done;  but  Minnie 
and  her  mother  argued  against  any  such  course  and 
finally  convinced  him. 


192  THE  BEACON 

Minnie  indeed  had  decided  what  to  do:  she  pro- 
posed to  return  home  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"  He  and  everything  to  do  with  him  must  go,"  she 
said.  "  I'll  come  back  as  I  went — in  all  but  sorrow 
and  understanding.  I've  done  my  best  to  better  the 
man,  and  I've  failed." 

"  You  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear," 
declared  her  mother.  "  And  for  my  part  I'm  thank- 
ful to  God  it  happened  now  and  not  ten  years  later. 
You  can  get  rid  of  him  according  to  law,  I  suppose, 
and  then  you  can  set  to  work  to  forget  there  ever  was 
such  a  man." 

That  night  Fabian  Burgoyne  consulted  his  lawyer 
at  Okehampton  and  the  village  of  Zeal  was  thrown 
into  profound  excitement  by  the  news  that  Tom  Un- 
derbill had  run  away  from  his  wife. 

Minnie  would  have  hidden  it  for  the  moment,  until 
she  was  able  to  return  home;  but  it  could  not  be  hid- 
den, for  Jack  Jope  found  a  letter  waiting  for  him  also 
on  the  fateful  morning  and  learned  that  his  daughter, 
Emma,  had  thrown  in  her  lot  with  the  publican.  Mr. 
Jope  found  it  quite  impossible  to  conceal  his  news. 
His  white  beard  and  owl-like  spectacles  were  seen  up 
and  down  the  village  all  that  day.  He  had  affected 
some  concern,  but  felt  none.  Towards  night,  indeed, 
after  not  a  few  potations,  the  truth  slipped  in  a  full  bar 
and  the  shoemaker  spoke  to  Neddy  Knapman,  Lucky 
Madders,  Charles  Trevail  and  others  who  were  col- 
lected at  the  Oxenham  Arms.  Mrs.  Underhill  had 
not  been  seen  since  the  morning  and  some  rumoured 
that  she  was  actually  gone  home  already. 

"  You  might  have  blowed  me  out  of  my  window, 
like  a  mote  in  a  beam,"  said  Mr.  Jope.  "  I  corned 
down  house  at  my  usual  hour  to  find  no  fire  nor  noth- 
ing and  the  childer  all  abed.  Then  her  letter  faced 
me,  like  the  eye  of  doom,  stuck  against  a  mustard  tin 
on  the  kitchen  mantel.  In  a  word  the  man's  singled 
her  out  to  take  the  place  of  his  wife.     He  feels  'tis 


THE  BEACON  193 

better  that  him  and  Mrs.  Underhill  should  go  dif- 
ferent ways,  and  he's  long  seen  in  my  Emma  the  fash- 
ion of  female  to  suit  him.  And  so  they've  hooked  it 
together,  and  come  presently,  of  course,  she'll  marry 
him.  Tis  a  very  sudden  and  shattering  thing  no 
doubt." 

"  Sudden  to  us — not  to  them,"  said  Knapman. 
"  Where  I  go  sneaking  about  after  fish  or  birds,  I  oft 
surprise  more  than  game.  And  I  may  tell  you,  now 
the  murder's  out,  that  Tom  and  your  girl  have  been 
devilish  thick  for  a  longful  time." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  that,  since  it  had  to  be," 
declared  Lucky.  "  We'll  hope  that  innkeeper  have 
done  wisely  this  time  and  that  your  young  darter  will 
prove  a  useful  pattern  of  woman  to  him.  'Twill  be  a 
cruel  pity  if  they  have  to  go  through  all  this  trouble 
and  disgrace  for  nought." 

"  There's  the  disgrace — as  you  say,"  admitted  Mr. 
Jope.  "  'Tis  a  shameful  thing  in  a  sort  of  a  way  for 
a  maiden  to  mich  off  with  a  married  man ;  but  we  that 
know  the  married  state  and  understand  the  women  can 
afford  to  be  large-minded.  Tom  comes  to  Emma  and 
he  says  no  doubt — well — he  tells  her  what's  no  news 
to  any  thinking  creature  here:  that  he's  had  no  luck 
with  his  wife.  She  listens  and  says  she's  sorry  to 
hear  it.  Then — there  'tis.  They  go  from  strength 
to  strength.  He  holds  her  hand.  She  lets  him  do  it 
— for  sympathy.  She  airs  her  opinions  and  tells  him 
what  be  the  perfect  married  life.  And  well  she  knew 
it,  for  didn't  she  see  the  united  home  of  her  parents 
and  grew  up  in  the  sight  of  what  marriage  should  be? 
Then  Tom  finds  out  that  small  piece  though  my  Emma 
is,  'tis  with  her  like  the  saying,  that  little  parcels  hold 
the  biggest  treasures.  In  a  word  he  offers  for  her  and 
she — loving  the  man  with  her  whole  heart — for  so  she 
says  in  her  letter  to  me — in  a  word,  neighbours,  she 
takes  him  outside  marriage." 

"'Tis  a  pretty  big  come  down  if  you  ax  me,"  said 

'3 


194  THE  BEACON 

a  miner.  "  To  go  for  your  little  thread-paper  of  a  girl 
against  that  splendid,  tall,  round  creature,  his  wife." 

"  We  weary  of  the  flesh,"  answered  Jope.  "  Flesh 
is  grass.  'Tis  the  spirit  in  'em  keeps  wedded  people 
close,  or  thrusts  'em  apart.  When  you'm  thirsty  you 
take  your  pint ;  but  you  don't  want  to  live  up  to  the 
neck  in  a  barrel  of  beer.  Flesh  is  a  passing  thing  and 
becomes  a  habit — a  right  and  proper  habit,  but  no 
more  than  that.  But  between  a  man  and  his  wife  you 
want  understanding  souls,  and  the  power  to  give  and 
take,  and  the  ready  twist  to  see  what  t'other  wants 
afore  he  or  she  knows  it  themselves.  'Tis  very  ad- 
vanced learning  that  I  put  before  you;  but  I  don't 
speak  off  book ;  and  I've  little  doubt  my  Emma  will 
come  to  be  a  precious  helpmate  and  wife  to  the  man." 

"  In  fact  you're  mighty  glad  it's  happened  appar- 
ently," said  Trevail. 

"Of  course  he  is,"  said  Knapman.  "  It  means  free 
drinks  for  the  man  for  the  rest  of  his  natural  life, 
don't  it,  Jack?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I  wouldn't  suffer  that  in  any  case. 
There's  a  very  painful  side  that  I  can't  hide  from  my- 
self. My  darter's  living  in  sin  for  the  minute.  Of 
course  'tis  nothing  at  all  and  the  law  of  the  land  makes 
it  necessary  for  her  to  do  so." 

"  To  sin  by  law's  a  very  queer  word,"  said  Lucky. 

"  So  'tis  then,  and  you  might  say  that  to  follow  the 
law  is  lawful  and  that  to  keep  in  the  bounds  of  the 
law  is  to  escape  sin.  But  I  won't  make  any  pretence 
of  that  sort,"  continued  the  shoemaker.  "  Fornica- 
tion is  deadly  sin,  we  all  know,  outside  church  or  reg- 
istry office;  and  then  the  ugly  word  drops  off  from 
the  deed  and  it  grows  beautiful  and  innocent  and  we 
call  it  something  else ;  but,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  in  a 
matter  of  this  sort,  they  be  doing  evil  that  good  may 


come." 


What  if  she  don't  divorce  him?  "  asked  Trevail, 
What  if  she  can't?  "  added  Knapman. 


THE  BEACON  195 

"  There  must  be  cruelty,"  admitted  Jack  Jope. 
"  Cruelty  there  must  be,  for  that's  the  added  crux  of 
the  law,  in  its  wisdom,  puts  in  the  path  of  the  woman 
against  the  man.  But  no  doubt  her  lawyers  will  find 
that  Tom  was  cruel.  In  fact  'twould  have  been  very 
cruel  not  to  be  cruel,  if  I  make  myself  clear;  because 
she  don't  want  to  be  handcuffed  to  him  no  more  after 
this.  For  that  matter  she's  young  and  handsome  and 
won't  have  to  wait  long  to  find  another  sort  of  man 
better  suited  to  her  bustling  and  cleansing  nature." 

They  debated  the  problem  with  all  its  aspects  and 
agreed  in  this:  that  Mrs.  Underhill  would  most  cer- 
tainly divorce  her  husband  at  the  earliest  possible  op- 
portunity. There  was  no  feeling  or  animus  in  any 
heart.  All  appeared  to  consider  that  Underhill  had 
shown  a  very  sane  spirit  in  breaking  a  bond  that  had 
become  unbearable.  And  all  likewise  hoped  that  his 
wife  would  soon  find  herself  suited  with  a  type  of  hus- 
band better  able  to  appreciate  her  manifold  virtues. 

Trevail  took  the  news  home  to  Lizzie  and  they 
talked  long  into  the  night  over  it.  She  had  little  to 
say  and  hid  her  fierce  sympathy  with  the  woman ;  but 
the  little  that  she  did  utter  won  a  negation  from  her 
husband. 

"  'Tisn't  all  his  fault  and  you  mustn't  think  it,  Liz- 
zie. 'Tis  a  case  where  the  love  wasn't  strong  enough 
to  stand  the  strain.  If  she'd  loved  him  better,  she 
couldn't  have  been  so  hard  all  round.  She  should 
have  yielded  a  little  for  his  sake.  The  poor  devil 
found  himself  with  his  back  against  the  wall  fighting 
to  call  himself  a  man.  That  couldn't  have  happened 
if  they'd  loved  properly." 

"  'Tis  just  because  she  did  love  him  so  truly,  that 
she  was  at  such  pains  to  lift  him  above  himself  and 
make  him  take  higher  views." 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  That  was  self-love  in  her.  She 
wanted  to  mould  him  anew  on  the  Rurgoyne  pattern 
and  hadn't  wit  to  see  that  it  couldn't  be  done.     And 


196  THE  BEACON 

if  she'd  loved  him  better,  she'd  long  ago  have  stopped 
torturing  him;  and  if  he'd  loved  her  better,  he'd  have 
tried  even  harder  to  change  for  her  sake  and  meet  her 
half-way.  Look  at  them  and  then  look  at  us.  You  can 
see  it  all  there  in  a  nutshell.  Such  things  will  never 
happen  to  us,  Lizzie,  even  though  we  don't  always  see 
eye  to  eye;  because  the  love  we've  got  for  each  other 
would  laugh  at  such  a  miserable  mess  and  serve  to 
keep  us  clear  of  it  for  ever." 

"  I'll  believe  that  with  my  whole  heart,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  the  deep  woods  under  Clannaboro'  twilight  of 
evening  already  hastened  not  much  after  three 
o'clock  on  a  late  December  day.  The  sun  was  low 
above  Cosdon  and  under  the  trees  the  lemon  light  of  it 
touched  dead  brake  fern  to  splendour,  glittered  over 
the  hollies,  flashed  upon  their  crimson  harvest  and 
found  the  hazels  also,  where  they  straggled,  naked 
save  for  the  little  tight  catkins  awaiting  spring.  This 
beauty  spread  beneath  a  net-work  of  ash-coloured  oak 
boughs  that  lifted  trunks,  mossy  and  ivy-clad.  Here 
and  there  leaves  still  clung  to  them  and  made  a  pillar 
of  fire  seen  afar  through  the  grey  forest;  here  and 
there  a  blue  fir  lifted  its  distinctive  colour  amid  the 
duns  and  drabs  of  the  hibernal  wood.  Aloft  a  fresh 
wind  sighed;  a  pigeon  sometimes  clattered  away,  like 
a  noisy  arrow ;  and  small  birds  flittered  with  subdued 
twittering  forward  from  tree  to  tree.  They  were 
long-tailed  tits  and  moved  in  a  little  company  together. 
Blackbirds  sped  with  shrill  outcry  amid  the  under- 
growth and  at  the  fringes  of  it ;  where  an  old  gate 
opened  upon  a  track,  hung  the  fruit  of  the  dog  rose, 
gemming  a  great  tangle  of  briars  with  scarlet.  Above 
all.  through  sun-touched  reticulations  of  the  boughs, 
there  shone  out  pale  December  blue  flecked  here  and 
there  with  feathers  of  golden  cloud.  These  were 
touched  to  rose  by  the  sinking  light  of  day.  At  the 
gate  a  horse  and  trap  stood  tethered,  and  deep  in  the 
recesses  of  the  wood  a  man  and  woman  walked  to- 
gether. Lizzie  Trevail  and  Reynold  Dunning  moved 
beside  a  brook  that  flashed  through  the  brown,  leaf- 
covered  earth  of  the  woods.  He  had  promised  her 
good  store  of  holly   for  winter  decorations  at  North 

197 


198  THE   BEACON 

Combe  and  she  was  come  to  fetch  it.  But,  as  they 
walked  and  talked  together,  the  berries  were  forgot- 
ten and  they  spoke  of  matters  more  interesting  to  both. 

She  was  asking  the  man  for  advice. 

"  It's  long  ago  now,  but  I  smart  still  when  I  remem- 
ber it.  And  yet  I  never  told  Charlie.  I  couldn't  dare 
to  think  of  what  he'd  do." 

"  Couldn't  you  ?     It  wasn't  difficult  to  guess." 

"  A  man's  own  wife  to  be  struck!  " 

"  Yes — you'd  reckon  there  wasn't  much  choice  for 
the  man  of  course.  But  the  case  is  made  a  bit  more 
difficult  than  it  looks  by  the  nature  of  things.  The 
man — Mortimore  I  mean — is  old  to  begin  with  and 
unlike  other  men.  Then  you  must  remember  how 
your  husband  stands  to  him  and  what  your  husband 
is.  In  fact  all  the  rest  is  nothing  beside  that  last  point. 
Trevail  is  Trevail,  and  no  man  will  ever  see  him  being 
much  use  in  a  row — even  though  you're  the  centre  of 
it.  But  perhaps  I  wrong  him?  Perhaps,  if  he'd  come 
to  know  about  it,  he'd  have  risen  up  like  a  man  and 
flogged  that  old  gorilla  within  an  inch  of  his  life. 
Can't  you  see  him?  " 

"  Don't  laugh  about  it.  You  know  he  couldn't  do 
any  such  thing.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  hear  that 
his  uncle  had  struck  me." 

"  You  didn't  tell  him  however?  " 

"  No.     Mr.  Mortimore  himself  told  him." 

"  Ah.  Swore  and  growled  and  said  he'd  do  it  again 
belike?" 

"  Something  of  the  sort." 

"  And  Charlie  was  terrible  angry — with  you  ?  " 

"  How  d'you  know  that  ?  " 

"Don't  I  know  him?" 

"  Angry  he  was — with  both  of  us.  He  talked  pretty 
straight  to  his  uncle — " 

"  So  he  told  you." 

"  And  I  believe  it.  He  told  the  old  man  that  such 
things   would   get   him   locked   up   and    that    he    was 


THE  BEACON  199 

ashamed  of  him  for  laying  his  finger  on  a  grown-up 
woman.  And  he  told  him  if  ever  he  did  such  an  in- 
decent deed  again,  he  should  have  to  leave  North 
Combe." 

"  That  was  all  right.     I  should  like  to  have  heard 
him  saying  it." 

"  You  don't  believe  me,  Reynold?  " 
1  Yes  I  do.  But  I'm  doubtful  of  him.  You  might 
say  that  I  both  do  and  don't  believe  the  man.  'Tis  all 
the  way  we  speak — not  the  words  we  use.  If  I'd  said 
them  things  to  Mortimore,  the  fur  would  soon  have 
been  flying  between  us;  but  with  Charlie — I  reckon 
he  was  about  as  angry  as  a  wood-pigeon  when  you  take 
her  eggs;  and  no  doubt  Mortimore  cared  less  for  his 
rage  than  for  the  blow  of  a  thistle-seed  on  the  face. 
You  know  how  your  husband  quarrels — as  gentle  as 
a  dove.  He  can't  help  it.  He's  made  so.  But  when 
he  came  to  talk  to  you  afterwards,  I  dare  say  he  was 
braver  and  bullied  you  a  bit." 

She  stamped  her  foot. 

"  How  mean  and  small  you  make  him !  Can't  you 
see  the  good  side  of  the  man?  " 

"  Quite  as  well  as  you  can.  You  allow  yourself 
that  he  was  angry  with  you  for  having  made  Morti- 
more angry.  And  all  I  say  to  that  is  that  it  looks 
mean  to  me." 

"  He  was  right  to  be  angry.  I  went  too  far  with 
his  uncle.  And  don't  suppose  that  it  all  passed  like 
nothing.  I  tell  you  that  Charlie  will  never  do  any- 
thing really  small.  He  has  great  self-respect.  He's  a 
man  and  I'm  more — far  more  to  him — than  anybody 
else,  his  uncle  included.  You  must  allow  for  his 
peace-loving  nature." 

"  Of  course.  But  you'll  find  that  them  as  love 
peace  so  much,  soon  get  to  sacrifice  all  else  for  it.  In 
this  world  you  have  to  pay  a  heavy  price  for  peace,  re- 
member. You've  got  to  sink  your  own  self,  if  you 
have  got  any  character  worth  calling  such ;  you've  got 


200  THE  BEACON 

to  eat  dirt,  and  offer  the  other  cheek,  and  tell  false- 
hoods, and  hide  your  own  heart  close  out  of  the  light 
of  day.  Peace  means  all  the  lies  that  every  herd  of 
men  be  called  upon  to  tell  every  time  they  open  their 
mouths.  Peace  means  saying  what  you  know  ban't 
true,  because  other  people  will  like  you  the  better  for 
saying  it;  peace  means  doing  what  you  despise  your- 
self for  doing,  because  other  people  will  find  you  more 
agreeable  if  you  dance  to  the  same  tune  as  them. 
Peace  means  other  people  and  what  they  think — all  the 
time — peace  with  them — but  war  with  yourself,  re- 
member. Real  peace  means  war  with  your  neigh- 
bours. So  I've  found  it  anyway.  You  know  all  this 
— none  better." 

"  'Tis  yourself,  or  the  other  people;  and  if  you're  a 
Christian,  I  suppose  you  must  put  the  others  first." 

"  Must  you  ?  Then  thank  God  you're  no  more  a 
Christian  than  me.  For  you  don't  put  your  hus- 
band's peace  afore  your  own,  else  that  line  on  your 
forehead,  between  your  eyes,  wouldn't  get  so  deep  so 
quick.     It's  come  to  a  stop — and  others  too." 

"  Marriage  makes  a  woman  feel  a  lot  older." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  marriage." 

"Welfare  is  more  than  peace.  If  I  can  lift 
Charlie—" 

"  You  stagger  me!  "  he  burst  out.  "  You — so  sane 
every  other  way — still  to  bleat  that  trash.  Lift  him! 
Haven't  you  lived  a  year  with  him?  Don't  you  know 
what  he's  made  of  yet?" 

"  I  do,  and  I  find  more  reason  to  hope  every  day  of 
my  life." 

"  You  don't  look  like  it,  and  you  don't  speak  like  it." 

"  I  must  go  on  trying." 

"  For  how  long?" 

"  For  ever." 

"  I  suppose  Minnie  Underhill  thought  the  same. 
Things  like  that  don't  go  on  for  ever." 


THE   BEACON  201 

"How  can  you  mention  us  in  the  same  breath? 
'Tis  as  different  as  two  cases  ever  were.  The  Under- 
hills  never  loved  like  my  husband  and  I  love.  They 
were  never  like  what  we  are  to  each  other.  And  I've 
a  right  to  say  it,  without  one  pinch  of  unkindness  to 
either,  because  I  lived  with  them  through  the  first  six 
months  of  their  married  life." 

'  They're  a  lesson  to  you  all  the  same,  and  I'll  wager 
you've  thought  a  lot  upon  them  ?  " 

"  Naturally." 

"  And  they've    frightened  you  a  bit  ?  " 

"  They  have  not.  I  was  terrible  sorry  about  it,  for 
I  liked  them  both  well  and  both  were  very  good  to  me ; 
but  there's  no  need  for  me  to  see  anything  in  their 
trouble  that  makes  me  frightened  for  Charlie  and  my- 
self. We  love  one  another  so  much  that  there's  no 
room  for  misunderstanding  between  us.  Everything 
is  small  in  the  light  of  love  like  ours." 

"  Well,  I'm  your  side  and  you  know  it.  We  must 
each  go  our  own  way,  and  your  way  is  to  try  and 
waken  a  bigger  conceit  of  himself  in  Charlie  and  my 
way  is  to — " 

He  broke  off  and  began  again. 

"  It's  a  curious  case.  Because  if  I  can  put  a  spoke 
in  Mortimore's  wheel,  as  I'm  bound  to  do  presently — 
then  how  do  we  all  stand?  " 

"  Why  must  you  do  that?  " 

"  He  forces  me  to  do  it.  He's  never  still  where 
I'm  concerned.  And  I  ban't  the  other  cheek  sort  of 
man.  If  the  old  savage  will  fight,  then  he  shall  find 
me  as  savage  as  he  is.  And  I've  got  more  friends 
than  him,  so  he'll  go  down.  Then  what'll  Charlie 
do?  He'll  tell  you  I'm  an  enemy  and  order  you  to 
treat  me  as  such.  Yet,  from  your  point  of  view,  if 
Mortimore  was  brought  to  his  marrow-bones  and  your 
husband  found  him  going  down — " 

"  He'd  stick  to  him  all  the  more.     You  don't  under- 


202  THE  BEACON 

stand  what  Charlie  feels  to  him.  'Tis  a  very  peculiar 
feeling  and  I  don't  think  he  knows  himself  all  that  it 
means.     He  has  a  most  ridiculous  idea  of  him." 

"  You  can't  put  that  right." 

"  Not  yet."  ' 

"If  the  old  ruffian  knocked  you  about  again — ?  " 

"  He  won't." 

"  He  may ;  Charlie  can't  stop  it.  You  don't  know 
half  what  I  know  of  Mortimore,  either  of  you.  He 
runs  his  show  under  the  old  rule  and  your  Christian 
ideas  be  no  more  than  the  wind  in  the  trees  to  him.  He 
shouts  for  'self'  and  you  shout  for  'duty';  and  the 
man  that's  playing  for  No.  I  always  smothers  the  man 
that's  only  playing  for  principle,  because  he's  in  earnest 
and  t'other  generally  ban't.  Duty's  always  difficult,  to 
begin  with,  if  you're  a  Christian — difficult  and  dull 
and  hateful.  Why?  Because  it's  only  a  scarecrow 
as  oft  as  not,  with  nothing  inside  it — no  heart  or  life 
or  anything  else.  And  them  as  started  it  knew  it  was 
such  a  fraud  that  they  had  to  promise  a  hatful  of 
sugarplums  and  everlasting  life  to  any  that  would  do 
it.  They  stick  the  vile  thing  up  between  us  and  our- 
selves— between  us  and  every  natural,  healthy  hope 
and  desire.  And  who's  going  to  fight  for  that  shadow 
against  a  strong  man  who's  got  no  use  for  it,  and 
knows  what  he  wants  and  how  it  can  be  won?  I'm 
going  to  knock  the  stuffing  out  of  Mortimore  pres- 
ently; but  I'm  not  going  to  do  it  by  doing  my  duty 
according  to  you  Christians.  I'm  going  to  do  my 
pleasure — not  my  duty;  and  presently  in  the  matter 
of  Charlie,  you'll  see  how  far  your  fancied  duty  con- 
tributes to  your  own  happiness,  or  his  either." 

"  What  helm  is  there  to  steer  a  man  or  woman,  if 
you  take  away  duty  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  love  you  make  such  a  fuss  about  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  And  if  you  love,  don't  you  want  to  lift  and  take 
the  burden  from  the  back  of  them  you  love?  " 


THE   BEACON  203 

"  The  burden — yes.  I  want  to  take  your  burden, 
Lizzie — such  as  it  is.  And  I  shall  some  day,  if  you 
live  long  enough.  But  there's  many  burdens  you  can't 
lift;  there's  many  burdens  none  asks  another  to  lift. 
And  our  characters  be  such.  You  can't  take  a  man's 
character  from  him  and  give  him  a  new  one;  and  I 
never  yet  met  the  man  or  woman  who  would  thank 
you  to  try,  or  do  anything  but  curse  you  if  you  suc- 
ceeded. Everybody's  character  looks  a  bit  burden- 
some to  everybody  else ;  but  only  the  bearer  knows 
where  the  shoe  pinches,  or  what  he  or  she  would  have 
changed.     Take  yourself." 

"  I'd  be  thankful  for  patience." 

"  Cant.  You  wouldn't.  None  despises  patience 
more  than  you  do.     You  don't  want  that." 

"What  do  I  want  then?" 

He  laughed. 

:  There  you  are!  You  don't  know.  We  none  of 
us  know  what  we  want — only  what  we  think  we  want. 
We're  all  humbugs  and  hypocrites  to  ourselves.  And 
none  will  come  fearless  to  his  neighbour  and  say, 
1  Friend,  better  me,  or  show  me  how  I  can  better  my- 
self.' " 

"  You're  not  very  helpful  to-day,  Reynold." 

"  I  love  you  too  well  to  say  smooth  things,  Lizzie. 
What  is  it  in  your  book?  Something  I  can  remem- 
ber about  the  folly  of  crying  out  peace  when  there  is 
no  peace.  I  tell  you  a  hawk  can't  bide  in  the  same 
cage  as  a  linnet.  'Twould  love  the  little  bird  so  much 
that  'twould  end  by  eating  it." 

"  You  get  harder  and  harder  to  understand,"  she 
said,  "  and  yet  well  enough  I  know  you  only  want  for 
me  to  be  happy.  Sometimes  I  ask  myself  what  the 
mischief  I've  got  to  worry  about,  and  for  my  life  I 
can't  see." 

He  was  inconsequent. 

"  I'm  always  here,  and  I'm  ready  to  fight  all  the 
devils  in  hell  to  do  you  a  service,"  he  answered. 


204  THE  BEACON 

"  Better  fight  the  bushes  and  pick  me  some  berries. 
The  dark's  coming  down  very  quick." 

He  worked  for  her,  took  out  a  heavy  clasp  knife 
and  soon  gathered  a  great  pile  of  holly.  He  added 
many  sprays  of  ivy  torn  off  the  trees,  and  from  a 
clump  of  butcher's  broom  he  cut  a  sprig  or  two,  with 
red  fruits  shining  upon  the  leaves. 

"  That's  for  a  buttonhole  for  you,"  he  said  and  she 
thanked  him  and  thrust  it  into  her  jacket.  He  looked 
at  the  beautiful  round  of  her  bosom. 

"  I  bleat  about  character,  and  what  we  want  and 
what  we  don't  want,  and  what  we  can  do  and  what 
we  can't  do ;  and  yet  all  the  time  I  know  you're  right 
and  I'm  wrong,"  he  told  her. 

"  How  d'you  mean?  " 

"  Why,  if  you  can  change  one  man,  you  can  change 
another;  if  you  can  make  one  man  a  thought  softer 
here  and  there,  why  shouldn't  you  make  another  man 
a  thought  harder  ?  You'll  turn  the  word  '  cant '  back 
against  me  I  reckon,  when  I  talk  thus." 

"  No,  I  shan't.     There's  no  cant  in  you." 

"  I  don't  know.  A  man's  very  thoughts  may  be 
tinged  with  cant  though  he  don't  know  it.  And  yet — 
and  yet — can  we  mistake?  If  I  surprise  myself  and 
find  myself  gentler  to  other  people  and  quick  to  make 
excuses  for  a  fool  here  and  there,  where  afore  I  was 
quick  to  trample?  If  I  find  that,  mustn't  I  seek  a 
reason?" 

"  I'd  sooner  help  you  than  any  man  living — but  one." 

"  And  if  you've  helped  me,  who  be  I  to  say  others 
shall  be  out  of  the  reach  of  help?  " 

She  glowed  and  blushed  with  pleasure  through  the 
fading  light. 

"  And  now  in  your  turn  you've  helped  me ! '"  she 
cried.  "  You've  put  a  glad  heart  in  me  and  turned  a 
dark  evening  into  a  light  one.  You  couldn't  have  said 
anything  in  the  world  to  please  me  better.  'Tis  so 
very  beautiful  to  help  and  be  helped." 


THE   BEACON  203 

He  sneered  at  himself  even  while  she  spoke,  but 
Lizzie  did  not  see.  She  was  looking  away  through 
the  woods  and  her  heart  went  out  to  the  man  who  had 
uttered  this  comforting  thought.  In  her  mind  was  a 
real  flash  of  hope  and  joy;  in  his,  more  emotions  than 
one,  contended.  He  had  told  her  the  truth  and  knew 
that  it  would  gladden  her  to  hear  it;  but  the  deduc- 
tion he  did  not  really  admit.  He  had  always  believed 
that  his  nature  and  Elisabeth's  would  blend  nobly — 
that  a  united  and  sufficing  life  might  have  been  lived 
by  them ;  but  he  had  never  believed,  and  did  not  now 
believe,  that  she  and  Trevail  could  lastingly  live  in 
unison.  His  own  love  for  her  he  understood  and 
knew  its  quality.  It  was  not  fierce  but  persistent.  He 
imagined  it  of  the  finest  temper  and  made  the  mistake 
of  supposing  that  a  weaker  man  than  himself  could 
neither  love  so  well  nor  so  finely.  But  the  power  and 
quality  of  love  cannot  always  be  inferred  from  charac- 
ter. Strong  men  may  be  weak  lovers  and  weak  men 
may  rise  to  greatness  in  that  one  particular.  Dun- 
ning did  not  overrate  his  own  affection  for  this  woman, 
but  he  underrated  Trevail's;  and  the  comfort,  beauti- 
ful and  sudden  as  the  last  expiring  sunset  fires,  which 
Lizzie  had  won  from  his  final  reflection  was  justified ; 
for  the  thing  that  he  had  said  was  truer  than  he  knew. 

Her  own  heart  told  her  that  it  was  true,  and  pres- 
ently, when  they  drove  away  together,  she  thanked  him 
once  more  for  saying  it. 

"  Tis  long  since  I  ever  felt  at  such  peace  with  my- 
self, or  so  proud,"  she  told  him.  "You,  that  never 
lie,  declare  to  me  that  you've  got  something  from  me 
worth  having.  That  in  itself  is  a  precious  thing  for 
a  woman  like  me  to  hear;  and  what  follows  is  better 
still — because  if  one,  why  not  another?  And  we  can 
do  much  for  each  other  for  certain,  for  look  how  much 
you've  done  for  me." 

"  Leave  it,"  he  answered.  "  'Tis  a  stupid  act  to 
beat  out   any  thought   too   thin.     But  mind,   there's 


206  THE  BEACON 

none  understands  you  like  what  I  do,  and  none  ever 
will — never!  It's  been  the  salt  of  my  life  to  read  all 
the  wonder  of  you,  and  I'm  beginning  dimly  to  see 
what  you  are.  Much  more  to  know  yet — much — 
much — but  already  I  know  a  lot  that  none  else  knows 
or  ever  will  know.  You  couldn't  marry  me ;  but  I  mar- 
ried your  innermost  part,  if  you  understand  that." 

She  did  understand  and  felt  uncomfortable  at  such 
an  asserted  intimacy. 

"  Tis  a  good  thing  to  me  to  have  you  for  a  friend." 

"  I'll  prove  it  yet.  But,  mind  you,  not  every  man 
could  have  kept  your  friend  like  what  I  did.  Tre- 
vail  couldn't  have — not  if  you  had  took  me  instead  of 
him." 

She  turned  the  tables  then. 

"  There  lies  the  difference  between  you.  Life  bites 
deeper  into  him.  He's  more  hot-blooded  than  you. 
He  couldn't  have  stood  by  and  watched  like  you.  He 
feels  sharper,  if  he  doesn't  think  so  deep." 

"  That's  interesting  and  worth  turning  over,"  he 
answered.    "  D'you  reckon  that  thinking  kills  feeling?  " 

"  It  deadens  it." 

"  I  wonder." 

"  I'd  sooner  sing  with  the  bird  on  the  bough,  than 
sit  with  the  toad  under  the  stone." 

He  laughed. 

"  That's  poetry  and  not  my  road.  Now  light  down 
from  your  cart  and  come  to  tea.  Mercy  Vallance  be 
looking  for  you.     You're  one  of  her  favourites." 

Mrs.  Trevail  had  promised  to  drink  tea  at  Clanna- 
boro'  after  the  holly  gathering  and  now  she  entered, 
while  Dunning  fetched  a  cloth  and  threw  it  over  the 
horse.     The  night  promised  frost. 

Under  the  opening  stars  Lizzie  drove  away  home 
presently,  and  her  thoughts  were  good  as  she  jogged 
forward  to  the  rustle  and  whisper  of  the  holly  behind 
her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  a  winter's  morning  early  in  February,  the  mid- 
day sun  hung  like  a  lamp  above  Cosdon  Beacon 
and  a  dazzling  mist  spread  beneath  it  in  a  nimbus  over 
the  crown  of  the  hill.  Thus  the  summit  was  hidden 
in  pure  light  and  Lizzie  Trevail,  looking  upward,  be- 
held new  manifestation  of  beauty  unseen  till  now. 

She  walked  here  alone,  for  her  husband  was  away 
on  Mortimore's  business  and  leisure  offered.  She  in- 
tended presently  to  visit  Fanny  Cann  and  drink  tea 
with  her;  but  now  it  seemed  that  this  holiday  would 
be  spoiled,  for  grey  vapours  sullied  the  silver  aloft, 
swallowed  it  up  and  smothered  Cosdon's  head  with 
storm. 

Lizzie  took  refuge  amid  great  stones  on  the  hillside, 
but  only  the  edge  of  the  rain  touched  her ;  its  rage  was 
spent  upon  the  hill  top  and  presently  it  swept  easterly ; 
the  darkness  broke  and  a  blue  weather-gleam  set  in  sil- 
ver winked  cheerily  over  the  shoulder  of  the  hill. 

The  woman  was  glad  and  started  again  to  a  favour- 
ite spot  upon  the  further  side  of  Cosdon.  A  great 
wind  buffeted  her  and  she  pressed  against  its  invisible 
breast  and  bent  forward.  The  Moor  flashed  up  with 
passing  sheafs  of  sunlight  that  seemed  to  sink,  bog- 
foundered,  in  the  marshes.  They  swept  about  her  fit- 
fully ;  but  darkness  was  the  gathering  note  of  the  day 
and  Cosdon's  shoulders,  lead  and  slate  colour,  sulked 
storm-swept  above  her  as  she  tramped  forward  to  the 
west,  with  her  skirts  flapping. 

She  sought  a  very  favourite  haunt,  where  a  stream 
leapt  from  Cosdon's  side  and  fell  by  a  little  glen  to 
Taw  river  beneath.  This  rivulet  was  linked  with 
happy  dreams  in  Lizzie's  mind.     The  water  of  it  al- 

207 


208  THE  BEACON 

ways  seemed  sweeter  than  any  other  that  gushed  from 
the  mother  hill.  There  were  holts  beside  the  brook 
where  she  would  be  safe  from  the  rain  and  might  eat 
her  sandwiches  and  think  her  thoughts  in  the  lonely 
peace  of  the  place  and  time.  For,  at  this  season, 
weeks  would  pass  without  a  human  footfall  on  the  hill. 

She  won  to  her  goal  before  the  next  storm  had  sped 
hurtling  over  the  Belstones,  and  when  it  found  the  side 
of  the  Beacon  and  emptied  its  grey  vials  there,  Lizzie 
had  reached  a  dry  crannie  and  could  gaze  out  without 
concern  at  the  hail  and  rain  as  they  lashed  the  hill  to- 
gether and  left  a  bleak  glimmer  of  white  ice  under 
their  passing. 

Her  thoughts  were  uncertain  as  the  day  and  acci- 
dent willed  that  the  weather  of  her  mind  chimed  with 
that  Nature  meted  to  Dartmoor.  Doubt  beat  up  now 
and  then  against  hope;  it  vanished  before  some  sunny 
memory ;  then  it  swept  her  mind  once  more  and  left  a 
fleeting  chill  at  her  heart  for  the  next  happier  thought 
to  banish. 

Upon  the  whole,  however,  though  the  day  grew  foul 
and  more  foul,  the  reflecting  woman's  mind  did  not 
share  in  this  deterioration.  She  argued  herself  into  a 
good  temper,  and  her  reason  told  her  that  to  feel  other- 
wise was  vain.  When  fear  of  her  own  attitude  and 
doubt  as  to  the  future  got  hold  upon  her;  when  dis- 
quiet and  the  brooding  sense  that  she  was  not  justify- 
ing existence  made  her  miserable,  she  always  fell  back 
upon  the  great  love  that  her  husband  bore  her.  Dif- 
fer as  they  might;  argue  as  they  might  on  the  mani- 
fold problems  that  beset  Lizzie's  path,  the  end  was 
always  the  same.  But  she  never  wearied  of  hearing 
him  declare  his  love  and  joy  in  her;  and  if  he  could 
not  always  convince  her  that  her  difficulties  were  ghosts 
born  of  a  faulty  and  morbid  conscientiousness,  yet 
sometimes  he  achieved  that  end ;  and  when  he  had  laid 
a  spectre  and  convinced  her  soul  of  error,  she  felt 
thankful  beyond  measure,  exalted  his  cleverness  and 


THE  BEACON  209 

[  sense  and  told  herself  that  she  was  wrong  to  feel  so 
[  untrustful  and  uncertain  concerning  Trevail's  theory 
I  of  life.     She  did  not  help  him  much,  though  daily  he 

assured  her  that  she  did.  It  became  a  habit  with  him 
j  to  say  so,  and  her  quick  ear  presently  perceived  that 
I  the  familiar  words  were  sinking  to  a  mere,  lifeless 
i  formula.     But   when   she   had   done   a   useful   thing, 

from  his  point  of  view,  or  when  she  did  agree  with 
i  some  proposition  that  he  advanced,  then  his  tone  rang 

I  true  and  rose  into  reality. 

He  was  stronger  than  she  had  guessed  in  some  par- 

II  ticulars,  weaker  in  others.  He  loved  ease  and  he  loved 
I  the  equivalent  of  ease  :  money.     At  present  he  worked 

hard,  but  he  looked  ahead  to  the  time  when  it  would 
no  longer  be  necessary  to  do  so.  He  was  frightened 
of  poverty  and  privation.  Hard  circumstances  de- 
pressed him ;  physical  comfort  appeared  essential  to  his 
mental  happiness.  He  lacked  moral  courage  and 
paraded  instead  a  very  unusual  tact  in  his  dealings 
with  other  men.  He  was  clever  in  a  diplomatic  way ; 
and  herein  his  wife  discovered  the  unsuspected 
strength.  But  it  was  a  strength  of  intellect,  and  she 
found  it  allied  with  an  instinct  towards  the  devious. 
She  knew  that  Trevail  was  disingenuous  sometimes. 
He  admitted  it ;  but  with  her  he  never  was.  She  saw 
and  regretted  the  characteristic  and  she  had  wit  to  see 
what  provoked  it.  She  told  herself  that  she  must  be 
above  all  measure  cautious  not  to  bring  down  this  ter- 
rible weapon  upon  herself.  She  believed  then  that  if 
he  hid  a  part  of  his  heart  from  her,  she  would  soon 
cease  to  want  any  of  it.  She  was  still  at  the  exacting 
stage  of  her  marital  life  when  monogamic  woman  de- 
mands all. 

The  stormy  day  brought  a  great  measure  of  peace 
and  she  turned  back  presently  in  a  happy  frame  of 
mind  to  her  friend.  Miss  Cnnn  however  had  another 
visitor  and  Lizzie  presently  found  herself  in  the  com- 
pany of  one  who  was  nol  happy,  and  for  whom  happi- 

'4 


210  THE  BEACON 

ness  must  now  at  best  be  an  uncertain  possession  hid- 
den in  the  far  future. 

Minnie  Underhill  sat  with  the  old  woman.  She 
had  returned  to  her  father.  As  for  Tom,  he  was  back 
at  his  home,  and  Emma  Jope  lived  with  him. 

"  I'm  telling  Minnie  here  what  may  be  worth  your 
while  to  know  too,"  said  Miss  Cann,  "  and  that  is  that 
Nature  makes  you  handsome  girls  pay  at  a  ruinous 
rate  for  her  gifts.  You  be  both  pretty  clever — you 
two,  but  oftener  than  not  with  beauty  there's  no  brains 
to  name,  and  then  the  poor  wretch  will  find  herself 
bankrupt  presently — as  they  so  often  do." 

"  The  clever,  plain  women  get  more  out  of  the  world 
than  the  silly,  pretty  ones,"  declared  Mrs.  Underhill. 
"  You  can  see  that  all  round  you." 

"  And  even  the  comely,  witty  ones,  like  you,  may 
come  to  grief,"  said  Fanny  Cann,  "  though  I  couldn't 
say  a  thing  like  that  to  you,  Minnie,  if  I  wasn't  very 
sure  what  looks  bad  for  the  moment  is  a  blessing  in 
disguise." 

"  You  needn't  fear  to  speak.  I've  got  over  it.  I 
never  did  suffer  so  much  as  my  father  and  mother 
suffered.  That's  because  I  was  behind  the  scenes  all 
the  time,  but  took  good  care  they  shouldn't  be." 

"  You'm  not  the  sort  to  speak  about  your  own  af- 
fairs, and  I  admire  you  for  it." 

"  No ;  but  there  was  a  bad  side  to  my  silence :  they 
thought  I  was  happy,  because  I  took  care  not  to  say  I 
wasn't.  And  when  I  just  went  home  and  told  what 
had  happened,  father  was  a  good  deal  put  about." 

"  Though  he  is  my  nephew,  you  know  what  I  think 
upon  it;  but  to  be  angry  with  the  weak-minded  is  to 
be  as  bad  as  them.  You  was  not  his  pattern  and  I 
lay  you  found  that  out  long  ago.  You  marrying 
women  all  do,  sooner  or  late.  Men  be  going  down 
as  we  be  going  up.  They've  kept  us  under  all  these 
years;  but  no  more  of  it.  We've  escaped  at  last. 
'Tis  our  turn  if  I  read  the  signs.     There's  no  great 


THE   BEACON  211 

men  now — they've  all  shrunk  into  smallness.  Tis  for 
us  to  show  'em  what  they've  forgot:  the  way  to  be 
great ;  and  you'll  live,  you  girls,  to  see  it  done." 

"  I  was  reading  a  book  a  bit  ago,"  said  Lizzie. 
"  You'll  remember  a  visitor  left  it  at  the  inn,  Mrs. 
Underhill,  and  I  asked  if  I  might  keep  it,  and  you  said 
I  might.  And  the  man  that  wrote  it  thought  that 
we  are  unfitted  by  our  mental  attributes  to  take  the 
all  round  views  that  are  needful  in  big  affairs.  He 
said — " 

"  Stop !  "  said  Miss  Cann.  "  That's  enough.  'Tis 
all  summed  up  in  those  two  words,  '  He  said.'  They 
write  their  books  for  themselves  and  their  all  round 
views  be  all  round  '  Number  One  '  every  time.  You 
wait  a  little  longer  till  there's  a  few  women  about  writ- 
ing books  for  us.  Then  I'll  listen.  As  for  them, 
they've  had  their  say  from  the  first,  and  a  very  ugly 
say  it's  been  for  the  most  part.  Even  Paul  in  the 
Bible  forgets  himself  when  he  touches  us — because 
some  sensible  woman  had  no  use  for  him,  I  reckon." 

They  drank  tea  and  talked  of  local  matters.     Mrs. 
Underhill  had  passed  through  the  darkest  stages  of 
her  tragedy.     She  did  not  regard  her  life  as  closed. 
[  To  think  that  girl  was  barely  eighteen!  "  she  said. 

"  That  needn't  surprise  you,"  answered  the  hostess. 
"  A  woman  can  be  as  wicked  and  clever  at  eighteen 
as  at  any  age.  That's  where  we  beat  them  again. 
They  be  slow  in  everything  and  don't  come  to  their 
full  wickedness  till  their  hair  begins  to  turn  or  fall. 
We're  quicker-minded  for  good  or  evil.  That  little 
toad  he's  got  now — why,  she  was  a  man-trap  at 
twelve." 

"  The  people  go  there  just  the  same — so  Mr.  Dun- 
ning tells  me."  said  Minnie. 

1  dare  say.     The  common,  unclean  things  will  like 
it  better  now  you're  away.      You  was  like  a  blast  of 
fresh  air  in  the  place,  and  most  men  be  like  vermin 
can't  abide  change.      Oon't  think  I've  been  there  since 


212  THE  BEACON 

you  went,  Minnie,  because  I  have  not;  and  more  has 
Lizzie  or  any  other  decent  woman.  You  wouldn't  ex- 
pect it  to  make  any  difference  to  men — until  the  liquor 
falls  off.  That's  all  they  care  about.  They'll  go  to 
any  pigstye  for  their  drink — so  long  as  the  liquor  be 
strong  enough.  But  I've  washed  my  hands  of  Tom 
now.  I'll  never  darken  his  door  again  and  he  knows 
it." 

"What  does  your  husband  do?"  asked  Minnie  of 
Elisabeth. 

"  He  thinks—" 

"  I  don't  ask  what  he  thinks:  what  does  he  do?  " 

"  Charlie's  a  man  that  takes  good  care  to  keep  out 
of  other  people's  affairs.  He  says  that  'tis  often  a 
very  impertinent  thing  even  to  pass  an  opinion  on 
what  happens  in  other  homes.  He  goes  to  the 
Arms  to  meet  this  man  or  that  and  pass  the  time  of 
day." 

"  He's  one  of  they  wise  cowards,"  said  Miss  Cann. 
"  For  my  part  I've  no  great  liking  for  them  as  keep 
their  mouths  shut  for  caution.  But  'tis  always  the 
way :  men  take  men's  side.  Your  Charlie's  no  better 
than  the  rest." 

"  That's  quite  wrong,"  answered  Elisabeth.  "  He's 
a  very  modest  fellow  and  he  shirks  taking  things  on 
to  his  shoulders,  not  because  they  aren't  strong 
enough  to  bear  them,  but  because  he  doubts  his  own 
strength." 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  man-hater.  "  He's  like  they 
foreign  camels  I've  read  about,  that  know  to  an  ounce 
what's  their  load  and  make  a  proper  fuss  if  you  put 
too  much  on  'em.  He  won't  stand  loading  and  has 
the  craft  to  know  it." 

"  You  mustn't  quarrel  with  my  husband,  Miss  Cann, 
for  that's  the  same  as  quarrelling  with  me." 

"  I  felt  like  that  once,"  said  Minnie  Underhill. 

The  talk  waxed  desultory  but  always  returned  to 
the  theme  in  their  minds.     Tom  Underbill's  mother 


THE   BEACON  213 

and  her  attitude  to  the  incident  was  mentioned  by 
Fanny  Cann. 

"  Just  to  show  what  women  are,"  she  said,  "  and 
just  to  show  how  motherhood  may  poison  their  in- 
stincts, you  can't  do  better  than  look  at  my  sister, 
Martha  Underhill.  Now  there's  a  woman  that  was 
wont  to  think  pretty  much  as  I  do.  But  Underhill 
come  along  with  his  airs  and  graces,  like  an  elephant 
trying  to  make  love,  and  at  first  she  scorned  him,  and 
then  she  gave  heed,  and  then  she  began  arguing  for 
him.  '  I'm  such  a  whacker,'  she  said  to  me,  '  that 
'tis  any  odds  I  shall  never  falls  in  with  a  man  that 
stands  three  inches  taller  than  what  I  do  again.' 
'  Why  for  do  you  want  to  fall  in  with  a  man,  at  all  ?  ' 
I  asked  her.  '  For  my  part,'  I  said,  '  I've  got  a  lot 
more  respect  for  the  woman  that  falls  out  with  a 
man  than  for  her  that  falls  in  with  him.'  But  she 
turned  it  over,  and  as  you  know,  took  him.  Her 
wedded  life  was  happier  than  such  things  go.  Then 
my  brother-in-law  got  too  heavy  for  his  heart  to  work, 
and  so  he  died.  And  Martha,  left  with  Tom  and  his 
sister,  became  very  religious.  And  now  where  are 
we?     Where's  her  religion  now?" 

"  You  mean  she's  her  son's  side,"  suggested  Lizzie. 

"  Of  course  she  is.  The  man  can't  do  no  wrong 
in  her  opinion.  Religion  goes  like  the  dew  upon  the 
fleece.  What  was  her  word  to  me  last  week  when  I 
was  over  to  Throwleigh?  'Much  happens,  Fanny, 
that  we  can't  understand  or  explain.'  she  says.  '  And 
this  break  between  my  daughter-in-law  and  Tom  is 
like  that.  None  be  more  sorrowful  than  me;  hut  out 
of  sorrow  comes  rejoicing,'  says  Martha,  'ami  Tom's 
far  too  clever  a  man  to  take  a  leap  in  the  dark.  lie's 
done  this  with  his  eyes  open,  for  his  peace — and  for 
Minnie's  peace.'  Yes,  she  -aid  that.  '  For  Minnie's 
peace.  And  Tom  be  happier  than  I've  known  him 
thi^  two  years;  and  I'm  very  hopeful  that  Minnie  will 
soon    be    the    same.'     That's    her   cowardly    mother's 


214  THE  BEACON 

way.  But  if  you'd  done  it — if  you'd  marched  off 
some  fine  morning  with  another  man  and  left  a  letter 
on  your  pincushion  for  my  nephew,  I'd  like  to  know 
what  Martha  would  have  thought  then!" 

They  discussed  Minnie's  own  intentions.  These 
she  herself  declared  to  them,  for  neither  mentioned 
the  subject. 

It  was  dark  before  the  women  parted.  The  things 
that  Lizzie  had  said — her  judgments  on  life  and  her 
hearty  sympathy — attracted  the  woman  who  had 
failed  as  a  wife.  They  left  Miss  Cann  together  and 
walked  side  by  side  for  some  distance. 

"  You've  got  eyes  in  your  head,"  said  Minnie, 
"  and  I  always  knew  you  had ;  but  I  didn't  know 
you'd  thought  so  much.  With  all  your  cleverness,  I'm 
a  bit  surprised  you  didn't  take  a  bit  more  to  Miss 
Cann's  view  and  keep  off  marriage." 

"  She  never  loved  a  man." 

The  other  sighed. 

"  Lucky  her !  Well,  here's  my  way.  I  must  get 
home.  I'd  like  to  see  you  again.  I'll  come  over  and 
visit  you  one  day." 

"  Please  do,  I'd  be  proud,  Mrs.  Underhill." 

"  Don't  call  me  that.  Call  me  Minnie.  I  wonder 
how  many  have  looked  back  at  their  old  maiden 
names  and  hungered  to  return  to  them  and  all  that 
they  mean?  However,  'tisn't  my  way  to  talk  that 
stuff.  But  somehow  you've  touched  me  to-day.  You 
don't  pity;  you  don't  bleat.  There's  a  hard  grain  in 
you,  like  there  is  in  me.  You've  comforted  me  to-day. 
You  link  up  things  in  a  way  I  haven't  heard  in  my 
family.  You  look  all  round  and  don't  miss  the 
brighter  side.     Good-bye." 

She  shook  hands  and  Lizzie  kissed  her.  That 
subtle,  horrible,  unconscious  sense  of  the  future — an 
endowment  of  such  women — drew  her  to  the  deserted 
wife. 

She  spoke  on  an  impulse. 


THE   BEACON  215 

"  I  wish  you'd  left  him!  "  she  said. 
'  Don't    you     wish     that,"     answered     the     elder. 

'Tisn't  worthy  of  you.  I  wouldn't  do  much  differ- 
ent if  it  had  to  come  over  again — not  much.  But 
one  thing  I'd  do.  I'd  take  greater  care  of  myself. 
If  I  could  sink  to  wish  anything,  Lizzie,  where  all 
wishing  is  but  foolishness  now,  'twould  be  that  my 
little  one  had  lived.  Oh,  my  God,  how  different  it 
would  all  have  been  then ! " 

It  was  dark  and  Mrs.  Trevail  could  not  see  the 
other's  face.  Nor  did  Minnie  stop  for  more  words. 
She  walked  quickly  away,  while  Elisabeth  stood  some 
moments  in  astonished  thought. 

At  the  time  of  the  catastrophe,  Tom's  wife,  true  to 
family  traditions,  had  maintained  a  stoical  composure 
before  the  misfortune  of  a  still-born  child.  Her  hus- 
band it  was  who  suffered  most  in  the  event ;  and  now 
looking  back,  the  listener  perceived  that  had  Minnie 
revealed  her  heart  a  little  to  him,  much  good  might 
have  come  from  it.  Had  she  wept  when  Tom  was 
wet-eyed ;  had — 

Lizzie  broke  out  of  her  futile  thoughts  impatiently 
and  went  home.  But  introspection's  intermittent 
fever  never  left  her  mind  for  long.  She  probed  her 
own  attitude  that  night  at  the  edge  of  sleep ;  and  she 
found  that  unconsciously  her  feminine  company  had 
aroused  a  wave  of  anti-masculine  instinct.  The  dis- 
covery amused  her.  She  turned  over,  snuggled  to 
her  sleeping  Charlie  and  kissed  the  back  of  his  neck. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEN  Minnie  Underhill  declared  that  Mrs.  Tre- 
vail  had  the  art  to  look  all  round  a  thing,  she 
paid  the  younger  woman  a  just  compliment.  Some 
accidental  twist  of  brain  matter  had  furnished  Lizzie 
with  an  unconscious  gift  of  relation  hardly  to  have 
been  expected  from  her  ancestry  or  training.  She 
possessed  a  little  of  that  gift  of  relativity  which  may 
be  held  the  supreme  test  of  intellectual  breath;  but 
in  excess  it  paralyses  action,  and,  while  a  proper  en- 
dowment to  the  metaphysician,  often  stands  between 
a  worker  and  the  thing  to  be  done.  The  more  possible 
courses,  the  longer  delay  in  decision. 

Elisabeth's  instinct  was  to  survey  those  links  that 
bound  her  husband  to  his  environment  and  judge 
which  most  galed  and  impeded.  Had  she  been  able 
to  prove  her  contention,  Trevail  would  doubtless  have 
broken  such  links  if  possible;  but  the  relations  that 
she  most  wished  to  see  modified  were  exactly  those  on 
which  he  held  the  whole  welfare  of  his  life  depended. 
In  many  minor  matters  she  gave  way  and  did  not 
press  him,  but  she  believed  him  seriously  mistaken  in 
some  particulars;  and  it  puzzled  him  that  she  could 
do  so  and  annoyed  him  that  he  was  unable  to  convince 
her  of  error. 

His  mind  was  small  and  established  no  large  re- 
lations. Indeed  he  held  that  to  limit  interests  was 
wise  and  to  evade  responsibility,  sagacious.  His  wife 
urged  him  to  enlarge  his  horizons,  for  she  entertained 
a  high  opinion  of  his  natural  ability  and  knew  that 
his  tact  won  men  and  made  friends ;  but  he  deprecated 
the  idea.  He  was  profoundly  happy  in  his  home; 
Lizzie   filled  his  leisure   abundantly;  he  wanted  no 

216 


THE  BEACON  217 

more  friends  and  no  more  occupation  than  a  small 
farm  gave  him.  He  looked  to  his  uncle  for  the  rest 
and  knew  that  Abraham  Mortimore  would  resent  any 
increased  activities  that  embraced  other  interests  than 
his. 

Lizzie  saw  this  clearly  enough,  but  she  believed  it 
to  be  a  fatal  error.  That  Mortimore  should  dom- 
inate her  husband's  finer  mind  with  his  coarse  one, 
she  felt  to  be  death  for  Trevail.  She  was  morbidly 
quick  to  mark  the  influence  and  there  came  a  time, 
presently,  when  she  began  to  feel  that  his  uncle  was 
ruining  Charlie.  They  wrangled,  but  they  loved  on. 
As  yet  no  diminution  of  passion  had  blown  with  chilly 
blast  upon  them.  Their  differences  always  ended 
with  an  embrace,  and  each  secretly  determined  to  go 
a  little  way  further  to  meet  the  other.  But  sometimes 
a  breath  of  real  acerbity  sprang  from  argument,  and 
the  man  was  generally  responsible  for  it.  Lizzie's 
attitude  to  '  the  main  chance  '  exceedingly  vexed  him. 
With  the  usual  male  instinct  he  held  his  brain  the 
clearer  and  the  larger.  Therefore  sometimes  she  an- 
noyed him  by  what  appeared  a  wilful  blindness  and 
lack  of  common  sense.  Had  they  stopped  to  define 
his  favourite  expression  already  mentioned ;  had  they 
weighed  the  meaning  of  those  words,  '  the  main 
chance,'  some  nearer  approach  to  understanding  might 
have  arisen  from  the  examination.  Because  then 
Trevail  must  have  discerned  that  widely  different 
ideals  existed  and  that  Lizzie's  vision  of  ultimate  good 
differed  from  his  own.  But  he  continued  to  pursue 
a  personal  standard  of  wordly  wisdom,  so  that  her 
vague  aspirations  to  a  loftier  and  less  sordid  outlook 
annoyed  him  when  he  was  in  a  bad  humour,  and  bored 
him  when  he  was  happy. 

He,  too,  had  grievances  against  her,  but  he  had 
never  formulated  them  until  an  occasion  when  she 
returned  from  the  Beacon  late  and  found  him  injured. 
He  had  cut  his  hand  badly,  and  since  she  was  away 


218  THE  BEACON 

from  home  at  the  time  of  the  accident,  he  had  been 
at  some  difficulty  to  wash  and  bind  the  wound  with 
the  help  of  a  clumsy  girl. 

He  greeted  her  angrily  when  she  came  back,  in  a 
dreamy  and  reflective  temper. 

"  I  wish  to  God  you'd  mind  your  proper  work  and 
stop  here  a  bit  more  instead  of  messing  about  on  that 
damned  hill  and  always  being  out  of  the  way  when  I 
want  you,"  he  began. 

"  I  go  but  once  a  week  and  not  so  often,"  she  an- 
swered. Then  she  saw  his  hand  and  was  all  concern. 
He  rated  her  while  she  took  off  the  blood-stained 
binding  and  prepared  to  make  him  more  comfortable. 

"If  you  could  only  see  yourself;  but  that's  what 
you  never  do  or  try  to  do.  You're  always  at  me  to 
throw  up  this  and  throw  up  that  and  make  friends  of 
strangers  and  show  at  the  shows  and  do  a  thousand 
silly  things;  but  you  never  get  tit  for  tat;  you  never 
hear  me  say  where  you  might  learn  a  bit  more  sense." 

"  I'm  always  very  ready  to  listen,  Charlie." 

"  Well,  listen  now  then  and  don't  talk.  I  say  this 
business  of  mooning  on  Cosdon  is  foolish  nonsense 
and  worse — wicked  nonsense.  You  can't  see  your- 
self, or  won't;  but  I  can,  and  I  tell  you  that  I've  got 
quite  as  much  cause  to  be  vexed  with  you  as  you  have 
to  be  vexed  with  me.  I  see  what  it's  doing.  It's  get- 
ting on  your  nerves  and  altering  your  disposition. 
You  come  back  from  the  place  full  of  crochets  and 
cranks  and  want  to  turn  everything  upside  down.  It's 
cruel  work  and  I'm  getting  sick  of  it." 

"  It  only  brisks  up  my  mind  and  makes  me  take 
larger  ideas  for  us  both.     It's  always  done  that." 

"  It  unsettles  you ;  but  it  isn't  the  Beacon.  A  lump 
of  mud  and  stones  surely  can't  alter  a  woman's  brains 
and  addle  them  and  make  her  think  all  wrong.  It 
isn't  Cosdon — I  won't  believe  it.  It's  that  sharp- 
tongued  old  woman  up  there  that's  got  a  bee  in  her 
bonnet   and   hates  men — just  because  they   are  men. 


THE  BEACON  219 

We're  never  right  in  her  opinion,  and  if  you're  going 
to  listen  to  her  twaddle,  I  suppose  you'll  think  the 
same;  and  then  life's  like  to  be  a  pretty  poor  thing  for 
both  of  us." 

"  That's  better,"  she  said,  speaking  of  his  hand. 
"  No  wonder  you're  vexed,  you  poor  man.  And  I'm 
sure  I'm  ashamed  to  think  of  myself  wandering  about 
amusing  myself  and  you  wanting  me.  'Tis  a  very 
ugly  cut  and  I  think  I'll  drive  you  into  Sticklepath  now 
this  minute  and  get  doctor  to  look  at  it." 

"  No  need  for  that.  'Twill  be  all  right  in  the  morn- 
ing.    'Tis  clean." 

She  gave  him  his  tea  and  explained  that  she  had 
not  seen  Miss  Cann. 

"  Don't  you  ever  think  she  influences  me  against 
men.  Men  have  made  the  world  what  it  is ;  and  'tis 
no  good  for  us  women  pretending  they  haven't.  And 
so  long  as  they  can  make  us  love  'em,  they'll  have  the 
whip  hand.  And  don't  you  be  cross  with  your  Lizzie, 
because  she  won't  stand  it.  You  know  I  never  think 
for  anybody  but  you;  I  never  worry  and  plan  and 
plot  for  anybody  but  you.  You're  all  I've  got  in  the 
world  and  more — far  more  than  ever  I  dreamed  to 
have.  I'll  not  vex  you  again.  'Tis  only  my  love  and 
longing  to  be  of  use  that  makes  me  do  it.  I  can't 
bear  to  be  outside  your  life.  I  want  to  be  in  it — 
part  of  it,  being  helpful  and  wanted  and  cried  out 
for  at  each  turn.  I  won't  be  a  dummy — you  know 
that  well  enough.  And  we  see  alike  in  so  much  thai 
the  things  where  we  don't  are  nothing  by  compari- 
son." 

They  both  knew  that  this  was  not  true,  because 
the  vital  matters  were  exactly  these  in  which  they 
could  not  agree ;  but  Trevail  relented  at  this  soft  an- 
swer and  expressed  instant  regret  for  his  heat. 

"  We  must  give  and  take,"  he  said.  "  I  know 
you're  as  right  as  possible.  I  must  get  bigger  ideas. 
And  so  I  do.     You  can't  see  the  change;  but  T  can. 


220  THE  BEACON 

I'm  a  lot  more  ambitious  than  I  used  to  be.  I  think 
in  hundreds  where  I  used  to  think  in  tens.  I've  opened 
my  old  man's  eyes  in  some  directions,  I  can  tell  you. 
I've  got  a  larger  mind  than  him,  though  not  so  many 
horse  power." 

"  A  larger  mind !  I  should  think  you  had,  Charlie. 
Don't  compare  yourself  to  him." 

"  Leave  that.  We're  friends  again  and  I  tell  you 
'tis  all  nonsense  what  I  said.  'Twas  only  the  sting 
of  this  gash  over  my  ringers.  We're  all  right,  the  pair 
of  us.  And  don't  you  think  I  don't  look  ahead  too. 
I'm  not  going  to  sing  small  for  ever.  I've  got  big 
ideas  in  my  head;  but  I  mean  to  keep  them  there  for 
a  bit.  I'm  not  going  to  work  all  my  life,  or  let  you, 
Lizzie." 

Thus  amity  was  restored  between  them;  but  the 
woman  remembered  the  sharpest  speeches  she  had  ever 
heard  from  her  husband.  They  interested  her;  they 
did  not  hurt  in  the  least.  Trevail  had  no  more  power 
to  hurt  her  than  a  child  has  to  hurt  its  guardian; 
and  there  was  a  danger  in  that.  She  felt  dispirited 
at  her  failures,  but  blamed  herself,  not  him;  and  when 
he  was  annoyed  she  instantly  set  about  to  soothe  him. 
She  loved  him  as  well  as  ever,  and  sometimes  with  a 
fierce  frenzy  that  embarrassed  him ;  but  she  loved  her- 
self too.  She  cherished  her  self-respect,  and  her  fail- 
ure to  leaven  his  weakness  with  her  strength  made 
her  cold  at  times.  She  had  counted  on  achieving  that 
as  a  matter  of  course.  She  had  seen  her  life's  work 
beautifully  knit  into  her  life's  love.  Whether,  with 
passage  of  time,  the  failure  of  the  one  would  destroy 
the  other  remained  to  be  seen.  As  yet  the  question 
had  not  occurred  to  her  and  she  felt  quite  unpre- 
pared to  accept  failure.  Indeed  there  were  not  want- 
ing many  minor  evidences  of  success. 

There  came  a  day  when  spring  had  returned  again 
and  Trevail  was  with  his  sheep.  Then  Iron  Morti- 
more  swept  into  Lizzie's  kitchen. 


THE  BEACON  221 

"  Where's  the  man  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  With  the  eaning  ewes.  He'll  be  back  to  dinner 
in  an  hour. 

"  Tell  him  I  want  him — sharp.  He's  got  to  do 
something  for  me  this  afternoon  and  it  won't  keep." 

"  I'll  tell  him,  uncle." 

He  had  not  seen  her  for  two  months  except  at 
church. 

"  Be  us  friends?  "  he  said. 

"  Depends  on  you." 

He  looked  her  up  and  down  with  his  naked  stare. 

"  No  child  coming  yet  ?  " 

She  understood  him  and  was  not  more  troubled  than 
had  a  horse  or  dog  regarded  her. 

"  No." 

"  So  much  the  better.  Mind,  the  minute  he's  swal- 
lowed his  food  I  want  him  at  Zeal.  And  bid  him  put 
on  tidy  clothes." 

He  went  out  and  then  returned. 

"  When's  your  birthday?  " 

She  told  him. 

"  I've  got  a  gift  for  you." 

He  departed  and  she  laughed  to  herself.  But  the 
laugh  died  swiftly.  She  loathed  to  hear  her  husband 
ordered  about  in  this  fashion  by  a  savage. 

Trevail  was  with  his  uncle  soon  after  two  o'clock, 
and  he  wore  his  market  suit  of  grey  tweed,  riding- 
breeches  and  yellow  leggings. 

He  found  Mortimore  impatient  and  perturbed. 

"  It's  the  quarry,"  he  said.  "  That  blasted  chap 
at  Oxenham  House  is  one  of  the  pinnicking,  polite 
sort,  and  I  can't  get  him  to  come  to  grips.  The  lease 
runs  out  in  two  years  from  Michaelmas  and  I  want 
to  renew  it  and  have  done  with  it.  There's  one  or 
two  after  it  a'ready,  and  I've  been  told  as  that  devil, 
Dunning,  have  been  seen  up  at  the  House." 

"  Have  you  been  up?  " 


222  THE   BEACON 

"  Twice.  Fust  time  he  wouldn't  see  me,  because 
he  was  engaged,  and  second  time,  afore  I'd  been  with 
the  man  two  minutes,  he  rang  for  one  of  his  male 
servants  and  had  me  shown  out.  Plain  English  ban't 
no  good  to  him,  so  I  want  for  you  to  go  up  this  after- 
noon. I've  found  out  he's  to  home  and  I  want  in  so 
many  words  to  know  if  he'll  renew  my  lease,  and  if 
he  won't,  why  he  won't." 

"  Perhaps  'tis  a  bit  too  soon  to  go  into  it." 

"  Be  damned  to  that !  Nothing  can  be  done  too 
soon  when  you've  got  a  lot  of  sly  rogues  trying  to 
chouse  you  out  of  your  own.  I've  a  right  to  the  re- 
fusal of  the  lease  and  he  can't  in  reason  or  justice  give 
it  to  any  man  over  me." 

"  Perhaps  he's  going  to  put  up  the  rent,  uncle." 

"  Then  why  don't  he  say  so  and  be  straight  instead 
of  crooked?  " 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you?  " 

"  Nought.  Wouldn't  discuss  it.  He  had  his  ideas 
as  to  the  future  of  the  quarry,  but  in  his  opinion  the 
time  wasn't  ripe  or  some  such  jargon." 

"  He'll  say  the  same  to  me." 

"  Not  if  you  use  your  wits.  You  know  how  to 
soap  over  these  men  and  get  '  yes  '  or  '  no  '  out  of 
'em — I  don't.  So  get  along  to  him  and  then  come 
back  here." 

The  farmer  went  immediately  and  presently  spoke 
with  a  young  man  who  had  lately  entered  into  his 
patrimony.  The  estates  were  involved  and  the  heir 
felt  impressed  with  the  fact  that  his  revenues  ought 
to  be  far  higher  than  they  were. 

Trevail  pleased  him  with  a  display  of  civility  and 
respectful  sympathy.  He  knew  something  of  the 
young  man's  problems  and  hinted  that  he  was  already 
popular  in  the  district.  Upon  the  subject  of  the 
quarry,  however,  the  owner  was  not  prepared  to  dwell. 

"  I  couldn't  discuss  the  matter  with  Mr.  Mortimore, 
because  he  made  such  a  noise  and  forgot  himself.    The 


THE  BEACON  223 

facts  are  clear  enough :  the  quarry  is  worth  a  higher 
rent  than  he  pays,  and  at  the  termination  of  his  lease, 
the  rent  will  be  raised  to  the  next  tenant." 

"  Certainly,  sir.  If  it's  worth  more,  you  ought  to 
get  more  for  it.  I'm  sure  my  uncle  will  see  that. 
But  he's  proud  of  the  quarry  work  and  has  built  up  a 
steady  little  business  on  it,  and  he  feels  that,  perhaps, 
you  wouldn't  take  it  amiss  if  he  asked  for  the  first  re- 
fusal of  the  new  lease.  He's  been  a  good  tenant  for 
a  great  many  years  now  and  I  don't  think  that  any- 
body in  these  parts  would  work  it  better  or  keep  all  the 
machinery  in  such  good-going  order." 

"  I've  nothing  to  grumble  at.  But  I'm  not  pre- 
pared to  commit  myself  to  any  promise.  Mr.  Morti- 
more  has  the  place  for  two  years  yet.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  I  may  invite  tenders,  or  devise  some  other 
scheme  for  the  quarry. 

"  You  won't  give  him  any  advantage  by  reason  of 
his  long  lease  and  good  tenancy?  " 

The  younger  man  considered. 

"  I  want  to  be  reasonable.  I  will  say  nothing  at 
present.  You  had  better  act  for  him  and  see  me  or 
my  agent  again  on  this  subject  next  Michaelmas 
twelvemonth.  By  that  time  I  shall  have  straightened 
things  out  a  little  I  hope.  This  will  serve  as  a  re- 
minder to  us  both." 

He  made  a  brief  memorandum  and  handed  it  to 
Trevail. 

The  latter  thanked  him  and  added  a  few  more 
words  on  Mortimore's  behalf. 

"  He's  rough,  but  he's  a  good  sort  and  your  quarry 
be  more  to  him  than  anything  in  the  world.  Wrapped 
up  in  it  you  might  say.  And  he  wanted  me  to  say 
that  if  you  meant  to  lime  the  big  field  under  the  wood, 
he'd  esteem  it  a  great  favour  to  have  twenty  tons  ready 
for  you  for  nothing  when  you're  ready  for  it." 

"  On  no  account.  I  shall  be  buying  the  lime  pres- 
ently and  shall,  of  course,  come  to  my  quarry  for  it. 


224  THE  BEACON 

And  I  trust  Mr.  Mortimore  may  prove  to  be  the  future 
tenant.  There  is  no  sentiment  about  the  matter,  but, 
other  things  being  equal,  I  shall  favour  him.  Don't 
let  him  come  here,  however.  His  manners  annoy 
me. 

"  His  bark  is  worse  than  his  bite,  sir." 
"  No  doubt ;  but  I  hate  men  who  bark." 
Trevail  took  his  leave  with  a  courtesy  and  deference 
natural  to  him;  and  presently  another  of  his  inherent 
qualities  appeared  in  a  subsequent  conversation  with 
Abraham  Mortimore. 

He  related  the  substance  of  his  interview,  but  he 
was  politic  and  tempered  it.  An  independent  hearer 
had  gathered  from  his  narrative  more  promise  for  the 
present  tenant  than  really  existed.  But  the  old  man 
was  not  very  grateful  to  his  nephew.  He  had  hoped 
for  something  definite.  It  was  his  way  to  look  ahead, 
and  uncertainty  upon  a  subject  so  vital  at  the  lime- 
stone quarry  exasperated  him  not  a  little. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MINNIE  UNDERHILL  had  to  make  choice  be- 
tween a  judicial  separation,  under  which  the  law 
would  prevent  her  husband  from  marrying  again  until 
her  death ;  or  a  divorce  at  the  end  of  two  years  from 
her  desertion.  She  decided  upon  the  latter  course; 
and  now  nearly  half  the  time  was  gone  when  her  name 
rose  upon  two  tongues,  where  Elisabeth  Trevail  and 
Reynold  Dunning  talked  beside  the  quarry  pool. 

The  leaves  had  fallen  and  a  network  of  grey  and 
brown  boughs  made  tender  colour  round  the  tarn. 
Mist  hung  about  the  place  and  all  the  tones  of  ink- 
black  water  and  shadowy  banks  were  sombre,  save 
where,  springing  from  the  cliff  face  there  towered 
twin  birches  silvery  bright.  Silence  homed  here  in 
an  hour  at  the  edge  of  dusk.  Only  the  voices  of  the 
man  and  woman  broke  it.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of 
Iron  Mortimore's  punt,  which  had  been  drawn  up 
out  of  the  water;  and  Dunning  stood  beside  her. 

"  Minnie's  in  London  along  with  her  brother.  He 
lost  his  wife  three  months  ago  and  she's  gone  to  look 
after  him  for  a  bit.     I  almost  envy  her  sometimes." 

"  Because  Tom  chucked  her?  " 

"Good  gracious  no,  Reynold!  Because  she's  in 
London.  I  hated  it  when  I  left  it — but  now — some- 
times— I  can't  help  wondering  if  'twould  do  Charlie 
good  to  be  there." 

"  'Twould  choke  him.  Charlie  won't  stand  trans- 
planting. He's  like  a  maggol  in  a  pear.  Pull  him 
•  nit  and  he'll  die.  He's  known  no  other  home  than 
this  and  couldn't  flourish  nowhere  else." 

"  He's  so   uneven — my   Charlie.     Talk   of   women 
being  uneven!     I've  often  thought  that  I've  got  him 
15  225 


226 


THE  BEACON 


to  see  at  last,  and  fallen  to  sleep  with  a  light  heart. 
Then,  in  the  morning,  he's  gone  back  on  it." 

"  Got  him  to  see  what  ?  " 

"  You  know  well  enough;  or  if  you  don't,  'tisn't  for 
want  of  telling." 

"  You're  not  the  woman  you  were." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  she  asked  starting 
and  staring  into  his  face. 

"  The  same  to  me — the  same  to  me — more  to  me 
for  that  matter.     But  not  to  him." 

"Whose  fault  if—?" 

"  There  you  begin  with  your  parrot  question.  I've 
told  you  fifty  times  there's  no  fault  in  either  of  you." 

"  I'm  not  the  same  to  him — not  quite — I  grant  you." 

"  And  he's  not  the  same  to  you?  " 

She  sighed. 

"  Nothing  is.  Hope's  not  the  same.  I  used  to  fall 
back  on  hope.  And  it  never  failed  me.  But  now — 
sometimes — even  the  Beacon — " 

"  Don't  you  say  that,  because  I  won't  believe  it. 
The  Beacon's  the  Beacon,  and  though  I  always  told 
you  that  you  talked  a  good  bit  of  nonsense  about  it 
and  fancied  still  more,  still  it  have  left  its  mark  on  you 
and  you're  different  from  what  you  would  have  been 
if  you'd  never  climbed  it." 

"  Charlie  went  up  with  me  a  bit  ago.  'Twas  one 
of  our  happy  Sundays." 

"  You  can't  lift  up  what  can't  be  lifted,  or  cast 
down  what  won't  be  cast  down." 

"  We  see  nearer  together  in  many  things  however. 
The  close  life — " 

"  Don't  tell  me  that,  Lizzie.  Is  he  altering  you  ? 
Is  he  making  you  hungrier  to  be  snug  and  comfort- 
able? Is  he  bringing  you  to  like  Mortimore  any 
better?     Be  honest." 

"  Yes  he  is  then.  He's  making  me  like  my  uncle 
better." 

"  Don't  you  think  it.     Iron  Mortimore  himself  may 


THE   BEACON  227 

be  making  you  like  him  better.  'Tisn't  Charlie  that 
is.  What  you  like  about  Mortimore  is  what  you  like 
about  me." 

"  You  always  compare  yourself  to  him." 

"  I  say  that  if  you  like  him  better,  'tisn't  Charlie 
have  made  you.  He  can't  alter  your  nature  by  a 
hair  and  you  know  it;  and  more  can  you  alter  his. 
He  may  pretend  and  even  do  things;  but  'tis  only  for 
love  and  all  against  the  grain." 

"  And  don't  good  things,  done  for  love,  become  a 
habit,  like  other  habits?  Can  there  be  a  better  reason 
to  do  good  things  than  for  love  of  her  that  begs  you 
to  do  them?" 

'  Love — love — you  always  drag  in  love !  What 
d'ye  mean  by  it?  'Tis  twaddle  so  often  as  not.  You 
get  the  word  running  in  your  head  and  think  it  stands 
for  something  real.  You  don't  love  him  as  well  as 
once  you  did,  and  that's  not  your  fault.  There's  not 
enough  fuel  in  the  man  to  keep  your  fire  of  love  burn- 
ing.    I  always  told  you  there  wasn't." 

"  That's  not  true." 

"  You  say  so,  but  your  tone  of  voice  allows  it  is 
true.  It  must  be.  The  fire  shoots  up  and  flickers 
and  then  sinks  again;  and  ashes  be  the  end  of  every 
fire,  so  sure  as  flame  be  the  beginning.  The  thing 
sends  up  a  feeble  spark  or  two  when  he  makes  an 
effort  and  does  your  bidding." 

"There  it  is!"  she  interrupted  him.  "'Tis  the 
beautiful  efforts  that  he  makes.  Wouldn't  any  woman 
love  him  for  that?  I  know  how  hard  it  often  is  to 
him.     But  he  does  try — he  does  try." 

"  I  know  it — poor  devil." 

"You  think  to  hurt  me  by  saying  that.  Hut  you 
won't.     You'll  see  yet." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  see  all  right.  '  Hard  to  do  your  bid- 
ding!' T  shouldn't  have  found  it  hard.  I  loved 
you  better  than  you  love  him,  and  a  million  limes 
fiercer  than  he  loves  you;  because  I'm  a  million  times 


228  THE  BEACON 

fiercer  myself.  But  suppose  you  had  belonged  to  me 
and  I  had  set  out  to  mould  you  into  my  pattern — ?" 

"Well,  what  if  you  did?  Don't  we  all  do  it? 
Aren't  we  all  moulding  somebody,  or  trying  to  ?  ': 

"  I  shouldn't  do  it  to  hurt.  I  shouldn't  mould  you. 
You'd  mould  yourself.  We'd  change  each  other,  like 
whetstone  and  scythe.  I  shouldn't  preach  and  bore 
you,  like  you  bore  Charlie." 

She  stared  again  and  showed  annoyance. 

"How  can  you  say  that?" 

"Of  course  you  bore  him.  Don't  the  old  parson 
to  church  bore  you  with  his  sermons?  You're  a  life- 
long sermon — that's  what  you  are.  And  Charlie  must 
love  on  a  pretty  stout  pattern,  when  all's  said,  to 
stand  it  so  cheerful." 

"  How  little  you  know  what  our  life  is." 

He  yawned. 

"  Let's  go  to  the  quarry,"  he  answered.  "  The  old 
badger's  away  to-day  and  I  want  to  have  a  look  at 
it." 

But  she  was  not  disposed  to  change  the  subject. 

"  I've  got  Charlie  to  admit  that  money  isn't  every- 
thing anyway." 

"We  all  say  it.     But  who  feels  it? 

"  The  things  that  can  be  bought  aren't  worth  buy- 
ing," she  declared.  "  Look  at  them- — goods,  land, 
men,  women.  The  things  that  have  no  price  are  the 
things  worth  winning." 

"  And  those  are  just  the  things  you  can't  win  and 
never  will  at  North  Combe.  'Tis  a  poor,  rotten  world, 
where  the  only  real  treasures  are  a  matter  of  chance 
and  luck.  Look  at  me — money  gets  easier  and  easier 
to  come  by  as  your  pile  grows.  But  the  things  worth 
having — I've  got  none — none — none.  Like  Iron  Mor- 
timore  there  again — with  this  difference,  that  he  don't 
want  the  things  worth  having — and  I  do." 

"  You're  the  strong  sort.  You  ought  to  be  able  to 
win  them." 


>> 


THE  BEACON  229 

"  Perhaps  I  shall." 

They  stood  above  the  quarry  now  and  sight  of  it 
thrust  the  tenant  into  Dunning' s  mind. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  massive  '  over-burden.' 
Many  tons  of  worthless  matter  had  to  be  removed 
regularly,  at  a  price  which  largely  lessened  the  value 
of  the  stone  below. 

"  And  so  your  old  savage  says  he  can't  offer  to 
pay  much  more  rent  for  this  place?  What  his 
reason?  " 

"  He's  got  fifty.  The  cost  of  moving  the  rubbish 
and  the  fact  that  farmers  take  more  and  more  to 
foreign  manures  and  chemicals  and  want  less  and  less 
lime." 

He  nodded. 

"  That's  true.  And  so  they  get  their  ground  full  of 
poisonous,  foreign  varmints  and  wireworms  and  the 
devil  knows  what.  But  presently — before  very  long 
I  hope — they'll  be  crying  out  for  brown  lime  again. 
'Twill  be  too  late  to  repair  the  mischief  in  many  quar- 
ters then." 

"  Are  you  trying  for  it?  " 

"  You  know  I  am." 

"  Uncle  would  sooner  any  living  man  had  it  than 
you,  if  he  loses  it." 

"  Yet  I  shall  be  the  man.  He's  like  a  donkey  carry- 
ing bread  for  others  to  eat — your  uncle ;  but  he  doesn't 
know  that  yet.  You'd  think  he  was  too  clever — 
wouldn't  you?     Yet  the  money  wasted  here — " 

He  looked  into  the  quarry.  Already  darkness  be- 
gan to  fall  upon  it. 

"  I  like  it  when  everything  gets  all  blurred  and 
gloomy  and  solemn,"  she  said. 

But  now  he  changed  the  subject  again  and  showed 
her  that  he  had  not  forgotten  a  previous  remark. 

"  I'm  the  strong  sort  and  Charlie's  the  good  sort — 
that's  how  it  stands  between  us — eh?" 

"  And  always  did." 


230  THE  BEACON 

"  What  is  there  about  goodness  that  takes  your 
fancy  such  a  lot?  " 

"  What  a  question !  " 

"  Good — when  you've  said  a  man's  good — faint 
praise  and  cuts  off  everything  else.  He's  good,  and 
there's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  None  knows  that 
better  than  you  do,  Lizzie.  Good — like  bread  and 
potatoes.  Have  you  ever  thought  how  damned  stupid 
goodness  generally  be  ?  Good — what  for  ?  Good  for 
what?  Good  to  send  you  to  sleep — like  a  soft  bed. 
Is  that  all  you  ax  of  a  man?  Is  the  Beacon  good? 
No,  by  God !  A  tingling,  stormy,  raging  thing  that 
makes  you  freeze  and  sweat  and  smart  and  feel  small.'' 

"  'Tis  the  contrast  from  my  Charlie  that  makes  me 
like  Cosdon." 

"  No  it  isn't.  You  liked  Cosdon  afore  you  liked 
him.  'Tis  the  contrast  from  Cosdon  that  made  you 
like  him.  'Twas  a  silly,  thoughtless  act  to  set  your- 
self to  like  him.  And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing. 
You  know,  but  you'd  rather  not  know  it.  And  'tis 
this:  I  interested  you  afore  he  did.  Didn't  I? 
Think  before  you  answer.     You  always  speak  true." 

She  did  think,  but  she  did  not  answer.  Her  silence 
was  an  implicit  admission,  however,  and  satisfied  Dun- 
ning.    He  did  not  press  the  point. 

"  The  dimpsy  be  falling,"  he  said.  "  Are  you  go- 
ing to  ax  me  in  for  a  cup  of  tea?  " 

"Of  course:  you  came  for  that." 

He  laughed. 

At  North  Combe  Trevail  was  already  arrived  and 
they  ate  and  drank  together. 

Between  the  men  obtained  a  reticent  friendship. 
The  younger  was  a  little  jealous  of  Dunning — as  he 
was  a  little  jealous  of  Cosdon  Beacon;  and  in  the  same 
sense.  He  held  that  Lizzie  won  no  good  of  him.  But 
they  differed  only  upon  the  question  of  Dunning' s 
opinions,  for  the  master  of  North  Combe  entertained 
no   fear  of  his  old   rival.     Cordiality,   however,   was 


THE  BEACON  231 

impossible  at  any  time  with  Reynold,  and  least  of 
all  between  him  and  the  nephew  of  Abraham  Morti- 
more. 

Both  knew  that  a  day  was  coming  when  their  in- 
terests must  violently  clash  on  a  major  issue,  and  Tre- 
vail  was  now  working  hard  upon  his  uncle's  side  to 
preserve  the  quarry  to  him.  They  never  spoke  of  it 
and  Lizzie's  husband  was  astonished  to  hear  the  other 
do  so  now. 

"  I'll  talk  business  half  a  minute,  Trevail,  if  you 
please,"  he  said,  when  the  meal  was  done  and  both 
loaded  their  pipes. 

"What  about?" 

"  You  know  very  well.  You've  got  sense,  though 
your  uncle  has  not.  He  goes  driving  on,  like  a  steam 
roller,  and  it  answers  all  right  when  you've  only  got 
to  flatten  a  road  or  ride  rough-shod  over  fools.  But 
it  don't  answer  in  this  matter  and  you  know  it  don't 
— else  you  wouldn't  be  so  busy  for  him." 

"  I'd  rather  not  discuss  it." 

"  As  you  please.  I  speak  out  of  friendship.  I  am 
not  troubled  for  him.  Him  and  me  will  fight  like  a 
pair  of  bull-terriers  till  one  of  us  drops.  But  I  don't 
like  you  to  waste  your  time.  I  want  you  to  do  well 
and  keep  snug  and  untroubled.  Trouble  isn't  good 
for  you.  'Tis  the  warm  sun  sweetens  you,  not  the 
frost.  So  I  tell  you  in  a  word  that  I  shall  get  the 
quarry  promised  to  me  next  fall,  and  not  even  your 
clever  tongue  will  beat  me.  I  know  how  to  win,  you 
see,  and  you  don't;  so  you'd  better  save  your  time 
and  make  him  understand  that  after  next  Michaelmas 
he'll  enter  on  his  last  year." 

"  Since  when  did  you  take  to  bluff,  then?  " 

"  I've  no  use  for  bluff.  I  never  talk  off  book  to 
man  or  woman." 

He  looked  at  Elisabeth  who  was  clearing  the  tea 
things. 

"  No,"  he  continued,  "  I  never  tell  as  truth  what 


232  THE   BEACON 

ain't  dead  true.  But  I  know  that  I'll  get  the  quarry 
and  so  your  trouble's  vain." 

"  I  have  the  first  refusal,  however.  Perhaps  you 
didn't  know  that  ?  " 

"Yes;  but  'twill  be  a  question  of  tender." 

"And  if  my  uncle  doesn't  know  how  to  work  it 
cheaper  than  anybody  else  in  the  world  after  all  these 
years,  who  should?" 

"  That's  just  the  point.  He  doesn't  know.  How- 
ever, you  didn't  want  to  talk  about  it  and  I  won't  do 
so — more  than  to  say  that  if  a  hundred  tenders  went 
in,  I  should  win." 

"  You  know  more  about  the  quarry  than  we  do 
then?" 

"  You  can't  expect  me  to  go  into  that.  I've  only 
spoken  for  friendship  and  to  save  you  trouble.  Tell 
your  old  man  to  fling  up  the  sponge  and  go  without  a 
fuss.  Go  he  must.  He's  bested  me  often  enough  and 
will  again;  but  in  the  matter  of  the  quarry — no — 'tis 
mine." 

Trevail  and  his  wife  were  impressed  with  this 
finality  of  statement.  Dunning  was  harsh  and  definite 
always,  but  he  never  bragged. 

"  Have  you  got  an  understanding  with  Sir  Ralph?  ' 

"  Not  I.  But  he's  looking  after  the  pence  pretty 
sharp.     There'll  only  be  me  in  it." 

"If  you  offer  better  money  for  it  than  Mortimore, 
you  either  don't  know  what  you're  doing,  or  else  know 
a  lot  more  about  the  place  than  us." 

"  Well,  I  leave  you  to  guess  which.  Anyway, 
Lizzie  here  shall  always  be  free  to  wander  there  and 
see  faces  in  the  cliffs,  as  she  do  now.  And  I'll  make 
you  special  terms  for  your  lime  if  you'll  cart  it  your- 
self. You  shall  have  it  cheaper  from  me  than  from 
your  own  uncle — and  the  blackberries  shall  be  hers 
too." 

"  We  shan't  stop  at  North  Combe  for  ever,"  said 
Lizzie. 


THE  BEACON  233 

"  Shan't  you  ?  I  think  you  will,  so  long  as  the  old 
boy  knows  how  to  be  obeyed.  You  must  come  over 
to  Clannaboro'  presently.  I  want  to  show  you  a  new 
knife  for  mangel,  Charles." 

He  picked  up  his  hat  and  departed  abruptly  with- 
out any  formal  farewell,  according  to  his  custom. 
Behind  him  he  left  soreness  in  two  hearts.  Trevail 
was  troubled  about  the  quarry  and  Elisabeth  about 
herself.  She  had  no  immediate  opportunity  for 
thought,  however,  because  her  husband  began  to  ques- 
tion her  closely. 

"  Tis  going  to  be  the  biggest  fight  we've  ever  yet 
had,"  he  said,  "  and  I  reckon  that  you  might  be  use- 
ful to  us.  You're  as  thick  as  thieves  with  the  man, 
and  what's  the  good  of  that  if  we  can't  win  something 
out  of  it?" 

She  showed  surprise. 

"  Whatever  do  you  mean,  Charlie  ?  " 

"  Well,  'tis  craft  for  craft,  surely?  You  see  he  has 
a  secret  and  if  I  had  it —  If  we  know  what  he  knows, 
we  could  tend  as  he  tends;  and  so  we  should  win. 
Can't  you  see?  " 

"  You  don't  mean  I  should  try  and  get  his  secret 
out  of  him?  " 

"If  he  has  one — yes.  And  I  believe  he  has. 
'Twould  be  a  very  clever  thing  to  score  off  him  if  we 
could.  And  if  we  don't,  he'll  score  off  us.  You're 
our  side  anyway." 

"  I'm  not  one  side  more  than  the  other." 

"  Aren't  you,  by  God?     Then  you  ought  to  be!  " 

"  For  some  things  I'd  be  rather  glad  if  Uncle 
Mortimore  didn't  get  it.  He'd  keep  away  more  then," 
she  said. 

"  'Twould  pretty  well  kill  him  to  lose  it — if  Dun- 
ning got  it." 

She  laughed  and  he  grew  angry. 

They  quarrelled  and  did  not  make  it  up  for  two 
days.     He   was   much    incensed   that   she    refused    to 


234 


THE  BEACON 


help  him;  and  she  was  hurt  that  he  could  think  it  a 
seemly  thing  to  propose  such  a  course.  In  her  eyes 
some  dishonour  clung  to  him  for  suggesting  it. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ON  the  first  day  of  March  the  earth  was  frozen  in 
yard  and  croft;  cattle  with  steaming  breath 
gnawed  great  yellow  roots  unearthed  from  storage,  or 
tugged  at  trusses  of  hay.  The  birds,  tamed  by  the 
weather,  could  almost  be  handled ;  plover  ran  about  at 
the  edge  of  the  farmyards.  A  naked  field  at  North 
Combe  was  partially  hurdled  for  the  eaning  ewes; 
they  fed  on  swedes  and  awaited  parturition;  while 
close  by,  in  a  green  meadow,  new-made  mothers  lay 
and  little,  shaky-legged  lambs  blinked  under  the 
shrewd  greeting  of  north  wind  and  snow.  The 
stream  that  ran  at  the  bottom  of  the  Zeal  meadows 
was  feathered  and  scurfed  with  ice,  beneath  which 
strange  blobs  and  blotches  of  darkness  passed  along 
— oily  and  amorphous — to  mark  where  running  water 
worked  its  way  through  prisoned  air.  The  spring 
was  tardy  and  scarce  showed  a  sign  as  yet,  save  where 
the  lemon  tassels  of  the  hazel  shivered. 

Here  Trevail,  moving  early,  met  with  the  master 
of  the  Oxenham  Arms.  Only  the  frozen  streamlet 
separated  them  and  Charlie  crossed  it. 

He  had  not  the  vocabulary  or  perhaps  the  patience 
to  shade  his  meaning  very  clearly  in  certain  argu- 
ments now  of  frequent  occurrence  at  home;  and  the 
result  was  that  he  often  conveyed  a  wrong  impression, 
was  more  positive  than  he  meant  to  be  sometimes, 
and  at  others  undertook  more  than  he  proposed. 
After  the  failure  of  such  a  promise,  and  his  subse- 
quent explanation  that  he  had  meant  less  than  his 
wife  assumed,  moments  of  bitterness  passed  between 
them.  Because  words  are  responsible  for  more  tri- 
bulation than  deeds;  and  if  those  who  use  them  skil- 

235 


236  THE  BEACON 

fully  so  often  fail  on  some  sheer  breakdown  of  verbal 
definition,  it  will  readily  be  perceived  how  fruitful  a 
source  of  difference  must  the  spoken  word  become 
amongst  that  greater  number  who  lack  exactitude  of 
diction  or  of  thought.  His  wife  had  just  told  Trevail 
that  he  had  said  what  was  not  true,  and  he  smarted 
under  the  accusation,  because  he  was  acutely  con- 
scious of  having  done  no  such  thing. 

He  came  in  gloom  to  a  cheerful  man,  for  Underhill 
had  an  item  of  news  which  he  longed  to  impart. 

"  My  luck's  in,"  he  said.  "  Early  though  'tis  I've 
met  four  men  a  ready  this  morning,  and  it  couldn't 
have  fallen  out  better  than  that  I  met  you,  because 
I'd  sooner  you  and  your  wife  knew  it  than  most." 

"  What  good  fortune's  happened  ?  " 

"  Minnie  be  going  to  marry  a  Londoner ;  and  now 
that  sad  affair  be  happily  at  an  end.  I  heard  from 
her  lawyer,  and  I  wrote  a  most  affectionate  letter, 
and  I'd  send  her  a  wondrous  fine  present,  but  that  I 
know  too  well  'twould  be  sent  back." 

"  You  be  married  too  they  tell  me." 

"  Yes,  it's  known  now,  though  a  month  and  more 
old — to  please  Jope.  The  law's  a  very  funny  thing 
and  the  church  be  a  funnier  thing  still.  You  see, 
when  I  left  Minnie  and  took  up  with  Emma,  'twas 
desertion  and  adultery,  but  not  cruelty,  so  she  couldn't 
divorce  me.  The  law  wouldn't  let  her.  She  could 
have  got  separated,  but  if  she'd  done  that,  she  couldn't 
have  had  a  divorce  after.  So  she  wanted  two  years, 
at  the  law's  command,  and  all  that  time  me  and  Emma 
was  living  in  what  the  church  calls  sin.  You'd  think, 
wouldn't  you,  that  the  law  and  the  church  would  pull 
together  to  stop  such  a  disgrace?  However  I  hope  I 
shan't  have  no  more  use  for  either  of  'em.  I'm  very 
happy  and  contented,  and  so's  my  girl;  and  so  far  as 
I  can  see  'tis  only  very  silly  people  want  either  con- 
trivance." 

Trevail  nodded. 


THE   BEACON  237 

"  I'm  glad  Minnie  have  found  the  right  man." 

"  Not  so  glad  as  me.     And  I  hope  he  is  the  right 


one." 


"  How's  business?" 

"  Never  better." 

"  And  what's  the  difference  between  Minnie  and 
Emma,  Tom?  We're  old  friends  or  I  wouldn't  ask 
such  a  home  question;  but  I've  got  a  reason  for  ask- 
ing." 

"  The  difference  be  one  of  understanding.  The 
difference  be  a  little  more  dust  in  the  corners  of  the 
rooms  and  perhaps  a  broken  window-pane  waiting  for 
mending  and  the  fires  not  lit  quite  so  early  on  winter 
mornings.  Custom's  the  same — neither  worse  nor 
better.  My  father-in-law  gets  a  good  lot  of  liquor  for 
nothing,  but  against  that  me  and  Emma  have  our 
shoe  leather  free.  As  to  my  comfort,  you  can  see  it 
in  my  waistband.  I'm  getting  too  fat  altogether. 
'Twas  one  of  the  things  Minnie  was  always  on  to. 
For  ever  at  me,  poor  dear,  to  take  walking  exercise 
and  so  on.  But  of  course  I  shall  go  like  my  father, 
in  my  sixties;  and  I  know  it,  and  what's  the  hell  the 
good  of  pretending  otherwise?" 

"  Emma's  an  understanding  girl  ?  " 

"A  masterpiece — that  woman!  There,  I'm  silly 
even  when  I  think  of  her.  I  oft  call  her  to  me  and 
make  her  sit  on  my  lap,  just  for  love  of  the  Hghl 
weight  of  her — even  now.     She'd  beard  the  devil  for 


me. 


"  Don't  ever  cross  you?  " 

"  Not  she.  She's  got  a  most  amazing  talent  to  do 
just  the  other  thing.  Plans  the  very  fun  I  like  afore 
I've  thought  of  it.  Meets  me  more  than  half  way 
every  time.  Talks  when  I  want  to  talk;  shuts  up 
when  I  want  to  think;  comes  cuddling  to  me  when 
I'm  down;  keeps  out  of  the  way  when  I'm  busy;  be- 
in  my  lap  afore  the  word's  out  of  my  lips  when  I'm  in 
a  merry  mood.     If  I'm  thirsty,  she's  at  the  beer  barrel 


238  THE  BEACON 

afore  I  can  get  there;  if  I'm  hungry,  she  hastens 
dinner;  if  I'm  late,  she's  waiting  to  have  it  with  me. 
If  I'm  off  writing  letters,  I  find  she's  answered  them; 
if — but,  damn  it,  what's  the  good  of  telling  you  all 
this,  Charlie?  Don't  you  know  it ?  Ban't  you  one  of 
the  lucky  ones  too?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  God ;  but  Lizzie's — well  in  a  word 
she's  a  very  high-minded  woman." 

"  So  she  is  then;  and  didn't  Minnie  often  say  so? 
'  No  common  girl '  she  always  called  your  wife.  She 
had  a  great  respect  for  her  opinions  and  cleverness. 
They  was  like  each  other  in  a  way ;  and  I  may  tell  you 
that  I  found  that  out." 

"You  did,  Tom?" 

"  Yes,  I  did.  Because  I  went  sneaking  to  Lizzie 
sometimes  when  my  fine  wife  had  found  it  needful  to 
dress  me  down  rather  sharper  than  usual,  or  when  I'd 
wanted  a  thing  to  go  one  way  and  Minnie,  according 
to  her  high  ideas,  meant  for  it  to  go  another.  Yes,  I'd 
often  creep  in  the  bar  and  have  a  tell  with  your  wife; 
and  for  a  bit  she'd  understand  and  sympathise  with 
me.  But  after  a  while,  to  be  frank,  she  took  t'other 
side  and  stood  for  the  missis.  Not  that  I  was  hurt  by 
it,  because  like  will  to  like,  and  you'll  know  by  now 
without  my  telling  you  what  a  terrible  high  stand  your 
wife  takes.  So  big  as  Cosdon  were  her  ideas — like 
Minnie's.  And  she  be  marrying  a  big  man  by  all 
accounts — a  hotel  proprietor  up  Paddington  way. 
Lord!  how  London  dirt  will  try  that  woman!  But 
she'll  fight  it  and  conquer  it  of  course." 

Trevail  was  interested  in  these  reminiscences. 

"  Minnie  was  ever  at  you  to  take  grander  ideas — 
eh,  Tom?" 

"  Just  so.  '  Grand  '  wasn't  the  word.  They  Bur- 
goynes  be  all  very  haughty  as  you  know;  but  she  was 
the  top  flower  of  the  bunch  in  mind  and  body.  A 
proud  creature,  and  I've  always  wondered  what  the 


THE  BEACON  239 

devil  she  saw  in  me.  If  she'd  just  left  me  alone  and 
suffered  me  to  black  her  shoes  and  go  on  my  own  way 
rejoicing,  all  would  have  been  different ;  but  as  'twas, 
though  I  told  her  a  score  of  times  that  I  couldn't  soar 
to  her  lofty  standpoint,  she  never  would  believe  it." 

"  Did  you  ever  try?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Underhill,  "  God's  my  holy 
judge  I  did  try,  and  many  a  time  you  might  say  I  was 
breathless  and  sore  with  trying.  But  there  'tis — in 
a  word,  the  one  thing  that  priceless  woman  never 
could  grasp,  for  all  her  large  brain  and  lofty  ideas, 
was  the  simple  fact  that  a  pint  measure  won't  hold  a 
quart.  You'd  think  that  wasn't  difficult  to  under- 
stand; yet  these  big-minded  people  are  awful  prone 
to  miss  it.  My  Aunt  Fanny's  just  the  same.  Every 
man  of  us  would  have  to  be  born  again,  and  born 
different,  if  she  could  have  her  way." 

Now  Trevail  listened  to  this  genial  discourse  and 
understood  it,  and  yet,  feeling  a  great  intellectual 
and  moral  gulf  fixed  between  himself  and  Mr.  Under- 
hill, he  despised  the  publican.  He  knew  well  enough 
how  Tom's  experiences  applied  to  himself,  but  with 
this  difference:  Underhill  aired  his  own  inferiority, 
Trevail  was  not  prepared  to  do  any  such  thing.  He 
had  confessed  a  little  of  similar  sort  to  himself;  he 
had  declared  like  opinions  to  Lizzie ;  but  to  none  else 
had  he  admitted  such  disparities  and,  in  his  cool  mo- 
ments, he  did  not  admit  them  at  all.  His  answer, 
therefore,  was  hardly  what  might  have  been  expected. 
He  adopted  a  lofty  tone  himself  and  he  believed  what 
he  said ;  indeed  he  had  a  right  to  believe  it. 

11  I  hold  with  differences  between  man  and  wife. 
They  are  the  cogs  in  the  wheel  and  help  each  other 
along.  Lizzie  and  I  don't  always  see  alike.  But 
often  and  often  I  convince  her  that  she's  mistaken." 

"  Well  done  you !  "  said  Mr.  Underhill.  "  That's 
your  cleverness.     If  a  man  can  do  that — then  it's  all 


240  THE  BEACON 

right.  I  could  do  that  with  Emma — if  she  ever 
doubted  me,  which  she  never  does — but  I  couldn't 
with  my  first." 

"  Yes,  Lizzie  will  show  me  a  thing,  for  a  woman's 
mind  sees  much  that  we  miss;  and  I'll  show  her  a 
thing;  and  so  she  helps  me  and  I  help  her.  I  see  the 
force  of  her  ideas.  Now  in  your  case,  you  never  saw 
the  force  of  Minnie's — eh,  Tom?" 

"  No,  I  felt  the  force.  She  despaired  of  me ;  and 
'tis  very  uneasy  going  if  a  woman  despairs  of  her 
husband.  I'm  not  a  proud  man  as  you  know,  but  if 
you're  dead  certain  your  wife  thinks  you're  past  pray- 
ing for,  it  make  you  down-daunted — if  you  care  for 
her  opinion." 

"  It  weakens  love  no  doubt." 

"  That's  so ;  you  can't  long  love  a  party  that  despises 
you — unless  you're  a  dog." 

"  Not  that  I  go  all  the  way  with  my  wife  always," 
continued  the  farmer.  "  You  couldn't  expect  it,  be- 
cause she's  a  very  strong-minded  woman  with  a  good 
many  fads  and  fixed  opinions." 

"  And  very  impatient  of  what  she  takes  to  be  wrong 
of  course." 

"  Yes — very  impatient ;  but  not  with  me.  She'll  al- 
ways listen  to  reason." 

"  'Tis  a  great  and  a  rare  gift  in  a  woman  to  do  that. 
With  my  Emma,  my  reasons  are  good  enough;  with 
my  Minnie,  they  never  were." 

"  With  us  we  give  and  take." 

"  And  that's  the  whole  art  of  living,"  summed  up 
Tom.  "  Now  a  bit  of  fluff  in  the  corner  of  a  room,  or 
a  cobweb  hanging  from  the  ceiling  leaves  me  free  to 
go  on  living  my  life  quite  easily.  And  with  you  I 
suppose  that  your  prospects,  and  so  on,  are  all  right 
and  you're  content  to  let  the  future  take  care  of  itself. 
But  there's  a  certain  grand  pattern  of  females  who 
have  no  use  for  the  present,  but  be  always  planning 
the  time  to  come ;  though  for  my  part  I  always  say, 


THE   BEACON  241 

'  Let  sleeping  dogs  lie  and  don't  try  and  do  Time's 
work  for  him.'  " 

"  Lizzie  wants  me  to  plunge  out,  you  know.  She's 
got  a  great  idea  of  my  parts;  she  thinks  I'm  very 
clever  and  all  that,  and  naturally  I  don't  want  to  make 
myself  small  in  my  own  wife's  eyes." 

"  Who  does  ?  But  man  must  be  at  the  helm.  We 
can't  let  women  steer  the  ship,  Charlie." 

"  That's  what  I  say — not  of  course  that  the  ques- 
tion ever  arose  in  my  case,  but  sometimes  the  cleverest 
women  will  worry  about  what  they  don't  understand." 

"  Exactly  so !  And  because  they  don't  understand 
it,  they  think  we  don't." 

"  Now  'tis  different  with  us  men,"  argued  Trevail, 
"  and  that's  where  you'll  find  us  cleverer  than  them. 
We  know  they  know  a  lot  we  don't;  and  we  be  ever 
ready  to  let  them  mind  their  own  business  without  let 
or  hindrance  from  us ;  but  they  can't  feel  the  same, 
and  a  real  busy  woman  wants  to  be  busy  in  every- 
thing." 

"Gospel  truth.  If  I  don't  know,  who  should? 
That's  where  you  are  cleverer  than  I  was  no  doubt, 
and  have  kept  the  whip  hand.  'Tis  a  matter  of  self- 
respect  ;  and  once  I  lost  that,  I  knew  too  well  'twould 
take  a  terrible  strong  step  to  win  it  back." 

"  I  shall  never  lose  it,  Tom." 

"  Mind  you  don't.     Dunning  was  saying — " 

But  Trevail  interrupted. 

"  Funny  you  should  name  him.  Now  there's  a  man 
I  don't  reckon  be  much  use  to  any  woman." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  for  acid  sense  you  won't  beat 
him.     His  speech  bites  like  mustard." 

"And  if  he  can't  sting,  he  keeps  silent." 

"  I  won't  say  that.  I've  got  no  quarrel  with  him. 
He  stuck  up  for  me  well — all  the  time." 

"  We  men  can  take  him  at  his  proper  value,  but 
there's  that  in  him  that  blinds  the  women." 

'  He  didn't  blind  your  woman  anyway." 

16 


242  THE  BEACON 

"  No ;  because  she's  the  rare  sort  that  knows  her 
own  mind  and  can't  be  choked  off  it.  But  sometimes 
I'm  not  sure  if  Dunning's  wholesome.  We're  very 
good  friends  and  all  that;  and  yet  I've  marked  my 
wife  to  be  a  bit  unsettled  by  him  now  and  again.  I 
can't  forget,  of  course,  he  was  after  her." 

"  He's  straight  enough." 

"  No  doubt,  and  if  he  wasn't  I  shouldn't  mind. 
When  you're  dealing  with  such  a  pair  as  Lizzie  and 
me — but  the  man  has  a  way  to  throw  cold  water  on 
life  and  make  it  look  poor — just  because  his  own's  so 
empty." 

"  Pity  he  can't  find  a  wife.  He  might  for  the  seek- 
ing." 

"  He  told  me  slap  out  that  there  had  only  been  one 
woman  for  him  in  all  his  life,  and  that  woman  was  my 
wife.  I  gasped  in  his  face.  And  he  laughed  in  mine. 
He's  a  caution.  And  for  my  part  I  can't  say  I  care 
about  him.  His  mind's  like  the  Moor:  nought  worth 
a  damn  comes  out  of  it.  Why  don't  he  try  to  be  more 
like  other  people  and  go  to  church?" 

Tom  Underhill  laughed. 

"  We  always  feel  a  bit  unrest  ful  with  a  mind  that's 
built  on  a  strange  pattern  to  our  own." 

"  In  his  case  I  couldn't  be  a  friend  exactly — even  if 
I  wished  it.     There's  my  uncle  to  be  thought  upon." 

"  Iron  Mortimore  was  so  near  market  merry  as  ever 
I  saw  him  in  my  bar  last  night.  He's  just  had  a 
terrible  big  score  off  Dunning  and  drank  half  a  bottle 
of  gin  on  the  strength  of  it." 

"  Dunning  has  been  laid  up  with  a  lung  out  of 
order — got  a  chill  or  something — and  my  uncle  cut 
him  out  over  a  useful  lot  of  ponies  that  bankrupt  at 
Belstone  had  to  sell.  Dunning  couldn't  do  anything 
for  the  minute,  and  so  we  had  it  all  our  own  way." 

"  That  was  it,  was  it  ?  I  didn't  know  the  man  had 
been  ill." 

"  Properly  ill  by  all  accounts.     Lizzie  went  but  last 


THE  BEACON  243 

week  to  ask  for  him,  and  she  took  a  dainty  or  two. 
But  I  expect  he  gave  'em  to  his  dogs." 

"  'Tis  just  a  thing  he  would  do — under  her  nose  for 
her  to  see  him  do  it." 

They  parted  presently,  but  not  before  the  master  of 
the  Oxenham  Arms  had  asked  another  personal  ques- 
tion. 

"  And  how  does  your  old  boy  get  on  with  the  missis  ? 
I  remember  when  Lizzie  was  with  us  that  he  always 
said  she  had  more  sense  than  most  females." 

"  They  get  on  very  fair  most  times.  She  don't  like 
him — can't  see  his  good  side  in  fact.  But  'tis  all 
right.  He  gave  her  a  wedding  present — a  gold  brooch 
as  he  had  off  that  widow-man,  Chastey,  for  a  bad 
debt." 

"  Come !  That's  pretty  good  for  him.  'Twill  soon 
bring  Dunning  on  his  legs  again — to  see  how  busy  you 
and  your  uncle  can  be  when  he's  laid  by.  But  I  must 
get  over  and  visit  the  chap.  He's  always  stuck  up  for 
me,  though  we'm  so  different,  and  one  good  turn  de- 
serves another." 

"  He  only  stuck  up  for  you  because  you  was  law- 
less and  flouted  the  countryside.  'Tis  his  way  of 
looking  at  life :  he's  got  no  use  for  regular  behaviour." 

Trevail  crossed  to  his  own  side  of  the  stream  again 
and  the  men  parted. 


CHAPTER  X 

ON  Cosdon's  eastern  flank,  between  the  summit  and 
South  Tawton  Common  flung  out  below,  there 
runs  a  triple  row  of  stones.  The  shattered  monument 
extends  from  east  to  west  and  its  fragments  are  thrust 
at  all  angles  from  the  supporting  earth.  Seen  now, 
in  a  spring  gloaming,  they  appeared  to  totter  up  the 
hill,  like  an  army  of  weary  grey  trolls,  that  crept 
through  the  fading  light  to  their  home  in  the  moun- 
tain's heart. 

The  rows,  however,  led  to  no  cavern  of  treasure. 
They  terminated  at  broken  cairns;  and  on  the  frag- 
ments of  a  grave  Elisabeth  Trevail  now  sat  and 
waited  for  the  coming  of  a  man.  She  liked  the 
'  cemetery,'  as  this  spot  was  called,  and  wondered 
often  for  what  these  withered  stones,  here  thrust 
awry  by  weight  of  centuries,  once  stood  to  the  van- 
ished folk  who  raised  them.  Did  they  tell  of  a  dead 
hero's  fame,  or  chronicle  some  great  victory?  Did 
they  mark  a  nation's  mourning,  or  record  triumphant 
carnage?  She  had  imagination  to  dream  over  the 
problem;  and  then,  reflecting  upon  the  night  of  time 
into  which  those  people  had  sunk,  remembering  that 
these  splinters  of  granite  were  all  that  remained  to 
tell  of  either  sorrow  or  joy,  she  turned  from  them  with 
a  cold  heart.  The  spectacle  of  that  chill,  dreamless 
past  set  against  the  fiery  and  flying  present  saddened 
her.  She  clung  to  time,  yet  envied  something  in  the 
case  of  the  vanished  Stone  men;  for  were  not  their 
tribulations  ended,  their  problems  solved,  their  pains 
at  peace? 

The  present  now  appeared  to  her  in  the  shape  of 

244 


THE  BEACON  245 

Reynold  Dunning.  He  had  been  fishing  not  fax  dis- 
tant and  had  mistaken  their  tryst. 

"I'm  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting;  but  I'd  got 
into  my  head  we  were  to  meet  in  the  old  place,  under 
the  blackthorns  by  the  brook.  There  I  waited  awhile 
and  then  feared  'twas  here.  I've  brought  you  a  brave 
basket  of  trout.     They're  going  like  tigers  to-day." 

He  slung  an  old  creel  off  his  shoulders  and  sat  down 
beside  her. 

This  man's  attitude  toward  Lizzie  was  one  of 
Oriental  patience.  Love  in  no  way  filled  his  life, 
otherwise  such  an  ordeal  must  have  proved  impossible ; 
but  the  passion  salted  all  else  and  leavened  the  lump 
of  his  days.  In  a  word  he  believed  that  a  time  must 
come  when  Trevail  and  his  wife  would  part.  He 
stood  as  a  spectator  deeply  interested,  and  he  certainly 
made  no  effort  to  prolong  the  relation  between  the 
pair;  but  for  the  rest  he  did  not  meddle.  He  had 
told  Lizzie  in  plain  words  more  than  once  that  the 
end  was  inevitable;  but  she  refused  to  believe  him. 
That  she  permitted  him  to  say  so  and  still  valued  his 
friendship  was  significant  however.  And  he  knew  it. 
For  the  rest  he  went  on  his  way,  worked  hard,  saved 
money  and  believed  that  in  a  few  years  Elisabeth 
would  come  to  him.  It  might  be  two;  it  might  be 
ten.  He  could  wait.  He  loved  her  and  longed  for 
her;  but  he  was  careful  and  his  natural  speech  and 
attitude  to  life  made  it  easy  enough  to  him  to  conceal 
his  feelings  from  all  men.  She,  however,  knew  what 
he  felt  from  casual  utterances.  He  assumed,  as  a 
matter  of  course  in  their  conversations,  that  she  must 
know  his  mind.  At  first  these  assumptions  had 
startled  her;  now  she  was  accustomed  to  them.  She 
liked  and  admired  him  as  much  as  before;  but  whereas 
she  had  sought  him  after  marriage  to  win  help  from 
him  in  her  wifely  part;  whereas  she  had  formerly  be- 
lieved that  Dunning's  caustic  counsels  might  aid  her 
with  her  husband;  now  she  came,  and  often  came,  to 


246  THE  BEACON 

the  master  of  Clannaboro'  for  personal  refreshment 
and  a  little  mental  tonic  at  times  of  depression.  He 
always  did  her  good;  but  that  he  could  do  Charlie 
good,  she  had  long  given  up  hoping. 

His  nullifidian  attitude  had  been  accepted  by  her 
almost  unconsciously;  and  this  he  marked  and  felt 
glad.  A  time  was  coming,  as  he  guessed,  when  per- 
haps the  only  bar  to  his  hope  might  have  appeared 
in  faith  and  some  superstitious  clinging  to  creed. 
But  that  began  to  fail,  and  to-day  for  the  first  time, 
the  woman  herself  declared  as  much. 

She  asked  after  his  health  and  he  answered  that  he 
had  entirely  recovered. 

"  'Twas  the  good  things  you  sent  I  believe.  My 
old  woman  can't  cook  for  a  sick  stomach.  I  flung 
doctor's  physic  out  of  the  window  and  was  soon  well 
after  your  broth.  How's  Charles?  Chuckling  over 
they  ponies  I  expect.  They  had  me  there  I  grant; 
but  'twas  only  because  I  was  on  my  back  and  there 
was  none  to  fight  for  me." 

Lizzie  thought  of  the  quarry. 

"  Charlie's  all  right — very  busy  for  his  uncle  as 
usual.  If  we  only  had  a  bigger  place,  he'd  think  more 
for  himself.  I  hate  it  all — all  this  mean  dancing  about 
after  the  old  man." 

"  Yes,  you  would ;  but  Charlie's  built  to  be  a 
sucker.  'Tis  his  nature.  Have  you  dragged  him  up 
the  Beacon  of  late?" 

"  No,  and  shan't  try  again.  It's  silly  and  indecent 
between  two  grown  people — like  a  child  being  taken 
by  its  mother  to  school.  He  hates  the  place,  and  it 
only  makes  him  wicked,  and  all  he  does  is  to  turn 
round  and  say  it  makes  me  wicked.  '  Give  me  more 
work  to  do,'  I  say  to  him,  '  and  I  shan't  have  time  to 
wander  so  much.'  But  I'm  in  hot  water  myself  just 
now.  I  said  'twas  boring  me  to  death  to  go  to  church 
last  week,  and  my  husband  took  it  rather  ill.  I've 
got  too  light  a  touch  for  him.     He  always  puts  the 


THE  BEACON  247 

face  value  on  a  word  and  don't  know  how  to  see  'tis 
the  tone  of  the  voice  that  shows  how  much,  or  little 
a  woman  may  mean.  I  didn't  mean  it  in  earnest 
exactly;  but  when  he  turned  round  and  began  to 
preach,  then  I  decided  mighty  quick  that  I  did  mean 
it.     And  I  shan't  go  back  on  it  again  either." 

"  You're  right  there.  The  old  forms  and  old 
hymns  and  old  dusty  pulpit  twaddle — 'tis  all  of  the 
past  and  no  more  use  than  are  they  white  bones  bleach- 
ing there  to  a  hungry  bird  or  beast.  Be  yourself  and 
go  your  own  way  and  stick  to  what's  alive.  'Tis  part 
of  Charlie's  mean  nature  to  believe  everything  he's 
told  to  believe.  He'll  go  to  anybody  and  everybody 
but  you  for  his  wisdom.  That's  what  makes  me 
despair  of  the  man." 

"  He's  not  mean — at  least." 

"  He's  mean,  Lizzie ;  and  it  won't  help  you  with 
him  to  pretend  different.  You  must  know  what  the 
material  be,  or  you'll  mar  the  working.  You  can't 
make  a  silk  purse —     It  isn't  reasonable  to  think  so." 

"  I'm  a  woman,"  she  said,  "  so  I  needn't  look  for 
reasons.     All  the  same  I'm  reasonable  enough." 

'  Love — that  you're  always  chattering  about — 
blinds  you." 

"  No,  it  does  not.     It  makes  me  see.' 

"  And  makes  you  miserable  at  what  you  see." 

"  So  little  would  do  it — so  little.  Just  an  ounce  of 
self-respect  and — oh,  I  hate  his  plans  for  us.     They're 


>> 


so — • 


Yes,  I  know ;  and  remember  this :  they'll  get 
worse  and  more  and  more  choking  to  an  air-lover  like 
you.  If  at  his  age  he  can  think  of  comfort  and  thirst 
for  a  coward's  paradise  beyond  all  fear,  what  d'you 
think  he'll  come  to  presently?" 

"  Bigger  thoughts — if  I  can  make  him." 
"Smaller  ones,  because  yon  can't.     'Twill  all  turn 
on   money   saved.     All    he   wants   to   be   is   safe — the 
safety  of  smallness.     He  don't  want  no  fighting.     All 


248  THE  BEACON 

for  peace  and  soft  answers  to  turn  away  wrath  he  is. 
To  think  you've  married  a  coward — you !  'Tis  funny 
seen  so." 

"  I'd  leave  him  sooner !  "  she  cried.  "  Yes,  I  would 
— loving  him  as  I  do.  But  you  can't  understand  that. 
You  can't  understand  how  I  might  love  him  too  well  to 
stop  with  him  and  see — " 

"  See  him  shrinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  shell 
— against  the  buffet  of  the  world — see  him  growing 
tamer  and  tamer  and  more  and  more  of  a — there, 
what's  the  use  of  talking?  I  don't  want  to  cast  you 
down.  It  will  come  gradual — so  gradual  that  it  won't 
shock  you,  I  dare  say." 

"  I'd  leave  him  sooner,"  she  repeated. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  know  where  to  come,  if  you  do." 

It  was  the  boldest  hint  he  had  made  at  the  future 
and  he  felt  some  interest  to  see  what  she  would  say. 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Well,  here's  the  dimpsy  coming  down  and  I'll 
see  you  on  your  road.  After  all  we're  talking  a 
deal  of  nonsense  and  leaving  you  out  of  the  count 
altogether." 

"  You  always  do." 

"  Only  to  cool  off  your  hopefulness.  You  think 
you're  stronger  than  you  are ;  and  think  you're  weaker 
than  you  are.  I  mean  where  he's  concerned.  The 
truth  lies  midway.  You  certainly  can't  do  much;  but 
perhaps  it  isn't  fair  to  say  you  can  do  nought." 

"  I've  told  you  I  can  do  much." 

"  Well,"  he  said  rising,  and  lifting  up  his  cree1 
again,  "  don't  you  talk  to  me  no  more  about  him.  I 
can't  help  you  there.  But  talk  about  yourself  as  oft 
as  ever  you  please.  You  I  can  help,  and  you  know 
there's  nothing  on  earth  I  better  like  to  do." 

"  I  know  that." 

"  Always  remember  it.  You're  the  only  human 
creature  I'd  go  across  the  road  for ;  but  for  you  I'd  go 


THE  BEACON  249 

to  the  bitter  world's  end.     There!     You  little  thought 
to  ever  hear  me  make  such  a  fool's  speech  as  that." 

"  I've  got  to  thank  you  for  many  useful  words." 

He  changed  the  subject. 

"  Spring  be  still-born  by  the  look  of  it  this  year. 
Everything  is  that  lifeless  still,  and  the  late  frosts  have 
cut  the  early  potatoes  to  ribbons  and  browned  the 
early  flowers.  But  the  japonica  on  Clannaboro'  be 
making  a  brave  show.  You'd  best  to  come  and  see  it 
in  full  blooth  a  week  or  ten  days  hence." 

He  generally  linked  a  parting  now  with  some  more 
or  less  vague  undertaking  to  meet  her  again ;  and  to- 
day, with  her  wits  sharpened  by  things  that  he  had 
said  to  her,  she  recognised  this. 

"  I  can't  promise,"  she  answered  and  left  him. 

At  home  she  found  Trevail  awaiting  her  in  anger. 
She  had  promised  to  return  at  tea-time  and  the  hour 
was  now  past  six  o'clock. 

He  rated  her  and  followed  her  up  to  their  room 
when  she  went  to  take  off  her  hat  and  jacket. 

"  I'm  sick  of  this,"  he  said.  "  And  I'm  not  going 
to  have  it  any  more.  It's  your  own  fault,  but  with 
your  mighty  fine  views,  there's  one  view  that  you  miss 
and  that's  the  view  of  your  home.  You've  got  to 
pull  yourself  together  and  remember  you  didn't  marry 
me  for  fun,  but  for  better  or  worse.  I  know  I'm  a 
failure ;  but  you've  got  to  face  that ;  and  you'll  do  well 
in  future  to  make  friends  from  those  who  believe  mi 
me,  not  those  who  despise  me." 

"  I'm  sorry  I'm  late.  1  was  talking  with  Reynold 
Dunning  on  the  Moor." 

"Of  cmusc:  and  lie  was  telling  you  what  a  damned 
fool  I  am — and  a  few  other  tilings.  Well,  he  may  be 
right;  but  you're  not.  You're  wrong- — dead  wrong 
— to  listen  while  your  husband's  despised  and  sneered 
at;  and,  in  a  word.  I  wmi'l  have  it  -d'you  hear?  1 
won't  have  it.  If  you  don't  know  what  becomes  a 
man's  wife,  so  much  the  worse   for  you.      I've  been  a 


250  THE  BEACON 

good  husband  to  you,  though  you  don't  think  so;  and 
now  if  you're  going  to  be  restive,  'tis  time  you  felt  the 
curb." 

"Charlie!" 

"  I  mean  it.  Tis  your  own  fault.  I  hate  to  say 
such  things,  but  you've  brought  them  on  yourself.  I 
won't  have  you  see  that  man  no  more.  I  forbid  you. 
I'm  not  jealous  or  any  nonsense  like  that;  but  I'm 
not  a  fool  and  I'm  not  going  to  sacrifice  your  peace  of 
mind  for  another  man's  amusement." 

"  How  can  you  think  so  badly  of  me?  " 

"  Your  peace  of  mind  I  say — not  mine.  I  don't 
care.  I'm  well  used  to  being  always  wrong  now,  and 
if  your  lips  don't  say  it,  your  eyes  do.  But  I'm 
thinking  of  you,  not  myself,  and  I  know,  if  I  know 
anything,  that  Dunning's  only  putting  you  out  of  con- 
ceit with  yourself." 

"  Charlie,  listen  to  me.  I'd  rather — why,  what  is 
anything  to  me — anything  in  the  world  set  against 
you?  And  you  cut  me  to  the  quick  when  you  say 
that  I'm  always  against  you.  I'm  always  on  your 
side — on  your  best  side — and  many's  the  time  you've 
told  me  so.  Think,  think,  Charlie.  What's  my  life 
to  me  away  from  you?  Think  of  all  you've  done  for 
me.     And  am  I  to  do  nothing  for  you?" 

"  You  do  too  much.  That's  the  whole  quarrel. 
Can't  you  see  how  galling  for  a  man  it  is  that  his  wife 
should  treat  him  as  though  she  was  his  mother? 
Can't  you  see  how  damned  sickening  it  is  for  a  man 
to  know  his  wife  talks  about  him  to  another  man,  and 
asks  for  advice  as  to  how  to  improve  him?  " 

"  I  never  did  that." 

"  Yes,  you  did.  If  not,  what  do  you  talk  about  to 
Dunning  and  Fanny  Cann  and  Lord  knows  who  else? 
If  I  was  to  go  running  about  like  that,  what  would 
you  say?  I'm  myself  and  I  try  all  I  know  and  look 
ahead;  and  I'm  going  to  take  my  own  views  of  life, 
not  yours;  and  have  my  own  ambitions,  not  yours; 


THE  BEACON  251 

and  live  my  own  way,  not  yours.  And  if  my  way 
don't  suit  you,  then  set  about  trying  to  make  it  suit 
you.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  how  hard  I've 
tried  to  please  you  and  shall  again  you'll  never  guess. 
But  for  God's  sake  stick  to  me  and  grumble  to  me 
and  plague  me  with  your  fine  uplifting  ideas;  and  I'll 
do  all  I  know  how;  but  don't  run  about  to  other  peo- 
ple— 'tisn't  decent  and  'tisn't  fair." 

He  threw  a  new  light  and  showed  a  sensitiveness 
and  perception  for  which  she  had  never  given  him 
credit. 

She  did  not  answer  immediately;  then  she  put  her 
arms  round  him  and  held  him  close  and  kissed  him. 
He  looked  away  and  frowned  for  a  moment;  but  he 
was  always  clay  at  her  touch.  His  expression 
changed. 

'I'm  sorry,  I'm  sorry;  I'm  very,  very  sorry,"  she 
said.  "  I  see  what  you  mean  and  you're  right  enough. 
I  love  you  and  worship  you,  Charlie — same  as  you  do 
me ;  and  I'll  come  to  you — only  you ;  and  I'll  not  hurt 
you,  or  goad  you  with  my  stupid  ideas.  I'm  a  fool 
to  do  it,  for  what  man  would  stand  it?  Dunning 
told  me  an  hour  ago  that  I  should  bore  you  to 
death  with  my  preaching,  and  he  was  right  I'm 
ashamed." 

"  No  more  of  it,"  he  answered  mollified.  "  You 
don't  preach  and  'twas  damned  cheek  of  the  man  to 
use  the  word.  I  love  well  to  listen  to  you,  and  you 
know  how  much  you've  done  for  me  and  will  yet  do. 
But  if  you  fail  here  and  there,  don't  tell  other  people. 
Our  life's  too  close  and  precious  a  thing  to  be  stripped 
naked  for  Dunning  to  see.  I'm  sorry  I  forbade  you 
to  see  him.  That's  silly  of  course.  See  him  when 
you  please  and  where  you  please ;  but — " 

He  caressed  her  and  she  again  expressed  contrition. 
She  was  genuinely  sorry  and  she  respected  him 
greatly  at  that  hour.  But  he  spoiled  all  before  the 
day  was  done.     He  was  excited  by  this  scene  and  her 


252  THE  BEACON 

attitude.  He  told  her  that  henceforth  they  would  be 
heart  to  heart,  make  common  cause  against  the  world 
and  together  fight  the  battle  of  life. 

'  I  want  to  double  our  savings  in  the  next  two 
years,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  intend  to  see  you  working 
for  ever,  and  I  don't  intend  to  work  for  ever  myself 
neither.  Work's  a  mean  thing  when  all's  said.  You 
weren't  built  to  labour  but  with  your  brains.  Money's 
the  thing,  and  you'll  find  'tis  very  much  easier  to  take 
large  ideas  with  a  large  purse  than  without.  The 
future's  as  plain  sailing  as  need  be.  We've  only  got 
to  keep  Uncle  stroked  the  right  way.  And  I've  long 
learned  how  to  do  that.  One  has  to  eat  a  bit  of  dirt 
now  and  again,  but  nobody's  any  the  wiser  and  the 
game's  well  worth  the  candle.  Don't  think  I  forget 
your  high  notions;  but  we'll  stoop  a  bit  now  in  order 
to  climb  the  better  presently." 

He  talked  on  in  this  strain  and  endeavoured  to  set 
their  unique  good  fortune  before  her.  He  argued 
that  by  pursuing  his  policy  their  ultimate  position 
would  be  secured. 

"  Then  you'll  be  able  to  play  fine  lady,  if  you 
like,  and  be  the  first  to  see  I  was  in  the  right.  'Tis 
only  that  I  look  further  ahead  and  don't  live  so  much 
in  the  moment,"  he  explained.  "  But  you  don't  quite 
see  our  luck.  Most  times  them  as  have  the  power  to 
get  the  full  flavour  out  of  the  world  haven't  got  the 
means;  and  others,  who  have  the  means  haven't  got 
the  power;  but  us — why,  what  could  fall  out  better? 
Come  presently  we  shall  have  both  the  power  and 
the  means.  The  power's  yours,  Lizzie,  and  the  means 
shall  be  mine.     There's  fortune !  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  lose  your — " 

"  Stop !  "  he  said.  "  Not  a  word  on  the  other  side 
to-night.  You  must  look  at  it  all  my  way  to-night. 
And,  if  you  steadfastly  look  at  it  my  way,  then  sooner 
or  late  you'll  see  it  my  way.  Leave  your  happiness 
in  my  keeping;  trust  my  love,  if  you  can't  trust  my 


THE  BEACON  253 

wits.     Don't  love  sharpen  every  man's  sense  for  that 
matter?" 

Thus  he  struck  a  wrong  note  at  the  finish  and  left 
her  sleepless  and  disturbed.  She  was  incapable  of 
trusting  his  weaker  will  or  respecting  his  system. 
Life  stood  between  them  exactly  as  it  had  always 
stood.  If  she  could  not  change  him,  she  would  never 
be  content  with  him;  yet  to-day  he  set  about  chang- 
ing her;  he  preached  utility  to  her.  The  positions 
were  reversed;  and  she  told  herself  that  if  her  counsel 
struck  as  vainly  on  her  husband's  ear  as  his  now  fell 
upon  hers,  then  most  certainly  no  hope  of  a  true 
communion  was  ever  possible  between  them.  But 
she  did  not  give  up  hope.  She  even  examined  his 
theory  and  saw  its  reasonableness.  Yet  to  persist 
in  such  a  life  looked  vile  to  her;  the  man  who  could 
contentedly  sacrifice  his  liberty  and  self-respect  to  a 
lower  nature  than  his  own,  was  not  a  man  that  any 
honest  man  would  admire.  She  was  in  a  strenuous 
vein  and  more  than  ever  determined  to  influence  her 
husband.  Influenced  he  must  be,  because  his  was  a 
nature  bound  to  take  its  colour  from  other  natures. 
Its  native  tone  was  nought;  therefore,  since  it  was  in- 
evitable that  he  must  be  influenced,  she  and  not  an- 
other should  exercise  the  control  and  tinge  his  pellucid 
simplicity.  She  was  of  course  convinced  that  her  way 
and  only  her  way  would  meet  the  case  of  Trevail. 
But  in  one  direction  he  made  her  reflect.  What  he 
had  said  about  discussing  him  with  others  was  true 
and  sane.  She  would  pour  out  her  energy  and  skill, 
all  love-lighted,  upon  him.  But  she  would  never 
mention  him  again  to  anybody  else.  She  strung  her- 
self to  an  impassioned  attitude  and  sleep  deserted 
her.  She  saw  herself  sacrificing  herself  if  need  be  for 
him;  but  the  sacrifice  should  be  worth  making.  She 
would  not  waste  her  life  for  any  man.  She  became 
morbid  and  her  wearied  brain  refused  to  work  co- 
herently any  more. 


254 


THE  BEACON 


She  did  not  sleep  till  light  and  then  but  a  short 
while.  She  wakened  with  a  headache  and  went  as 
usual  to  pull  up  the  blind  and  look  at  the  day  and 
report  upon  it  to  her  husband.  The  Beacon  stood 
grey  as  a  cobweb  washed  with  curtains  of  rain, 
through  which  its  billows  rolled  under  a  dark  and 
wind-torn  sky. 

"  Foul  weather,"  she  said. 

"  So  much  the  better.  'Twill  keep  me  close  to  you 
and  we'll  have  a  warm,  snug  day  together.  Come 
back  to  bed  for  a  bit." 


CHAPTER  XI 

AT  the  Oxenham  Arms  a  party  of  familiars  drank 
on  an  evening  in  late  spring,  and  each  declared 
that  he  was  overworked  by  the  increasing  demands  of 

the  time. 

Only  to  the  miners  the  seasons  made  no  difference, 
and  they  were  not  interested  when  those  who  toiled 
above  ground  dilated  on  their  labours. 

"  As  for  me,"  said  Neddy  Knapman,  "  I  haven't 
touched  a  fishing-rod  for  a  month." 

"  And  I'm  never  away  from  my  bench,"  declared 
Jack  Jope,  "  except  when  I  run  over  here  for  two 
minutes  at  mid-day  to  see  my  daughter." 

Emma  herself  was  behind  the  bar  and  she  did  not 
contradict  him. 

"  All  the  same  when  you've  catched  thicky  widow 
we  all  know  you'm  hunting,  you'll  have  to  bide  a  bit 
closer,"  declared  Knapman. 

"  Mustn't  talk  like  that  to  my  white  beard,"  said 
Mr.  Jope,  "  else  I'll  ask  Emma  there  to  serve  you  no 
more.  I  ban't  hunting — 'tis  only  you  hunt — other 
people's  birds  and  fish.  But  of  course  'tis  well  known 
I'm  paying  my  respects  in  a  certain  quarter ;  and  why 
not?" 

Lucky  Madders  arrived.  He  declared  himself 
overdone  with  toil  like  the  rest. 

"  But  then  I've  worked  ever  since  I  could  walk," 
he  said,  "  and  work's  my  second  nature." 

"  Have  'e  seen  the  apple  blooth  in  the  valley, 
missis?"  asked  a  labourer  of  Emma.  "  'Tis  very 
purty  I'm  sure  and  did  ought  to  stand  for  an  amazin' 
good  year  of  cider." 

255 


256  THE  BEACON 

"  No — too  busy,  Henry,  but  I  shall  hope  to  get 
down  to  visit  a  neighbour  or  two  when  Tom  comes 
home  to-morrow." 

"  As  for  the  apples,"  said  Mr.  Jope,  "  'tis  only  a 
very  hopeful  sort  of  fool,  Henry,  as  smacks  his  lips  at 
the  sight  of  the  blooth.  Every  flower  ban't  an  apple 
no  more  than  every  egg's  a  chick;  but  we're  past  May 
and  all's  promising  fair." 

"  St.  Dunstan's  Day  be  the  ticklish  moment,  so  my 
gran'faither  used  to  tell,"  declared  Lucky.  "But 
times  have  changed  since  then  and  the  seasons  have 
shifted.  Do'e  know  the  story  of  St.  Dunstan  and  the 
Dowl,  souls  ?  " 

"Tell  it  out,  Mr.  Madders,"  said  Emma;  "ban't 
often  us  hears  a  tale  from  you." 

"  Well,  you  must  remember  that  the  holy  Saint  had 
a  weakness,  and  once  upon  a  time  he  bought  up  all 
the  barley  in  the  land  to  make  malt  liquor.  '  Good !  ' 
he  says  to  himself,  '  and  now,  if  things  but  fall  out  a 
bit  unkind  with  the  apple  trees,  I  shall  surely  win  a 
fortune.'  And  the  Dowl,  as  have  the  terrible  power 
to  hear  what  we  think  in  the  secret  places  of  our 
hearts,  he  came  along  that  instant  moment  and  made 
his  bow  to  the  Saint.  '  'Twould  be  a  mighty  fine 
thing  for  your  holiness  if  by  unfortunate  chance  the 
cider  season  failed,'  says  the  Dowl.  '  For  sure 
'twould,'  answers  the  Saint.  '  It  can  be  done — for  a 
consideration,'  says  the  Dowl;  but  what  he  got  for 
his  trouble  my  gran'faither  never  knew.  Be  that  as 
'twill,  Saint  Dunstan  tipped  him  the  wink  to  do  his 
worst  and  there  corned  such  a  terrible  cruel  master- 
piece of  a  frost  that  the  blossom  was  stricken  from 
the  bough  like  snow  and  there  wasn't  enough  cider 
to  drown  a  wasp  that  season.  But  the  Saint  done 
very  well  and  sold  his  liquor  at  fancy  prices  no 
doubt!" 

They  applauded  Lucky 's  legend  and  were  still  ap- 
plauding when   there  entered   a  rare   visitor,   though 


THE  BEACON  257 

one  familiar  enough  in  time  past  amid  these  sur- 
roundings. 

Miss  Cann  appeared,  clad  in  a  long  black  cloak 
which  enlarged  her  shape  to  the  form  of  a  gigantic 
extinguisher. 

"Where's  my  worthless  nephew?"  she  said  to  the 
barmaid.     But  Emma  she  ignored  explicitly. 

The  wife  pretended,  however,  not  to  see  this  slight 
and  answered  the  question. 

"  My  husband's  in  Exeter  on  business.  He'll  be 
home  to-morrow,  Miss  Cann." 

Fanny  hesitated.  It  was  not  her  practice  to  be 
uncivil  where  women  were  concerned. 

Mr.  Jope  spoke. 

"  'Tis  a  comely  sight  to  see  you  under  the  old  roof, 
Fanny  Cann,"  he  said. 

"Is  it?  I'm  doubtful  if  'tis  safe,  however. 
There's  none  to  look  after  anything  now,  and  the  old 
roof  be  like  to  fall  on  the  top  of  all  you  idle  topers 
afore  long;  and  good  riddance  if  it  do." 

"  We  was  all  talking  about  our  work,  if  you  must 
know,"  declared  Neddy  Knapman. 

"  Yes — talking  about  it.     You  can  do  that." 

Miss  Cann,  who  had  not  heard  her  own  voice  or 
another's  for  a  week,  now  showed  an  inclination  to 
stop,  and  Emma — always  lightning  quick  to  serve  her 
husband  and  lacking  not  for  intuition  that  Tom  often 
called  '  white  magic,'  now  came  boldly  from  behind 
the  bar  with  a  glass  of  cordial.  She  got  a  cushion, 
drew  an  old  chair  to  the  fire  and  insisted  upon  her 
husband's  aunt  sitting  down  for  a  while. 

Fanny  frowned,  hesitated  and  was  lost.  The 
little  woman  rose  on  tip-toe  and  soon  removed  Miss 
Cann's  great  cloak. 

"  I  know  what  you  like  of  an  evening,"  she  said. 
"  Tom  have  wished  time  and  again  that  he  could  see 
you  with  your  glass  of  his  cherry-gin  in  your  hand. 
He'll  be  terrible  sorry  to  miss  you.     I'll  mend  the 


258  THE  BEACON 

fire  if  you  please.  The  evenings  run  chilly  still  and 
we  light  it,  because  my  father  here  and  another  old 
man  or  two  like  it." 

"  Of  course.  I  know  'em.  What's  this  I  hear  tell 
about  Mrs.  Price,  Jack  Jope?  " 

"  I  can't  say  what  you  hear  tell,  Fanny  Cann,"  he 
answered.  "  But  it  you've  heard  tell  that  she's  very 
like  to  take  me  and  go  down  the  vale  along  with  me, 
you've  heard  the  truth." 

"  I  never  knew  such  a  loathsome,  lecherous  place 
as  this  in  my  born  days ! "  she  cried.  "  And  you're 
the  ring-leader." 

"  You'm  always  sticking  up  for  women,  and  so  you 
ought  to  praise  shoemaker  here  for  being  so  addicted 
to  'em,"  declared  Neddy  Knapman.  "  You  can't  pay 
no  female  a  greater  compliment  than  by  offering  to 
marry  her  I  should  think." 

"  In  such  a  case  as  this,  you  couldn't  offer  'em  a 
greater  insult,"  answered  the  old  woman.  "  Look  at 
that  owl-eyed,  old  goat  there !  What  be  he  offering 
but  a  barrel-load  of  a  dead  woman's  children — five 
of  'em  still  not  fifteen  year  old?" 

"  You  put  it  too  vulgar  and  coarse,"  said  Mr.  Jope. 
"  You  do  indeed,  Fanny  Cann.  Well  I  know  your 
scornful  spirit,  but  you  argue  without  knowledge  of 
the  passions.     Love — " 

"  Stop !  "  cried  the  other,  "  or  I'll  up  and  go. 
Don't  you  talk  to  me  about  love — 'tis  too  nasty  alto- 
gether— indecent  you  might  say." 

Mr.  Jope  flushed  a  rosy  red  and  his  eyes  flashed 
behind  his  glasses. 

"  There  speaks  a  neuter  I'm  sadly  afraid,"  he  re- 
torted. "  Why — God  Almighty — because  a  man's 
beard  have  turned  white,  be  that  any  reason  why  his 
blood  should  run  cold  ?  I  tell  you,  you  unfinished 
woman,  that  love  keeps  the  heart  young,  and  if  my 
beard  be  a  matter  of  threescore  and  five,  my  heart 
can  rage  like  a  furnace  still." 


THE   BEACON  259 

"  You're  a  very  nasty  old  thing  in  my  judgment, 
whether  I  be  unfinished  or  not;  and  come  Sally  Price 
takes  you,  she'll  be  a  nasty  old  thing  also,  and  so 
enough  said,"  summed  up  the  man-hater.  Then  she 
asked  a  question.  "Why  ban't  the  bear  here?  I 
miss  his  growl." 

"Do  'e  mean  Mortimore  or  Dunning?"  asked 
Lucky.  "  They  both  go  by  the  name  nowadays, 
though  for  my  part  I  shall  always  hold  that  Dunning 
earns  it  best.  My  master — why  '  bear  '  be  far  too 
meek  a  word  for  him.  A  bear's  a  tame  beast  along- 
side him.  And  us  shall  all  suffer  mighty  soon,  or  I'm 
no  prophet." 

"The  quarry  you  mean?"  asked  the  man  called 
Henry. 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  smell  brimstone  and  sulphur  there 
whichever  way  it  goes,  for  if  he  loses  'twill  be  hell  let 
loose  upon  us;  and  if  he  wins,  it  can  only  be  by  send- 
ing in  a  tender  as  will  beggar  us  all." 

"  Your  wages  won't  suffer,"  said  Emma.  "  You 
and  the  other  men  will  be  left  where  they  are." 

"  So  they  think,  but  I  feel  terrible  anxious  upon  it." 

"  You  can  go  if  it  comes  to  that,"  declared  a  miner. 

"I  can;  but  where  to?" 

"  What  does  Mr.  Trevail  say  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Jope. 

"  Too  busy  to  say  much ;  he's  trying  to  get  by 
skill  what  Mortimore  can't  get  by  force ;  but  'tis  all  a 
question  of  cash.  Mrs.  Trevail — she'll  oft  times 
come  in  the  quarry  and  mount  the  lime  kiln  and  watch 
me  at  my  work.  She  don't  want  Iron  Mortimore  to 
have  the  quarry  no  more." 

"  That's  silly  of  her,"  said  Emma.  "  What's  the 
good  of  her  wishing  things  to  fall  different  from  how 
her  husband  wishes?" 

"  She  have  her  reasons  and  very  good  ones,"  de- 
clared Miss  Cann ;  "and  in  your  new  state,  Emma, 
you'll  do  wisely  to  remember  the  powers  that  a 
woman  has.     Lizzie  knows  what   they  are;  and  you 


2(50  THE  BEACON 

know — or  ought  to  by  now.  However  it's  no  use  my 
preaching  to  you." 

"  I'd  sooner  pleasure  you  than  anybody  alive  but 
my  husband,"  answered  Emma  frankly;  "but  in  the 
matter  of  men  we  women  have  different  ideas  about 
tackling  'em.  We've  all  got  our  systems,  Miss 
Cann." 

"  You'd  like  to  tackle  'em  with  a  red-hot  poker, 
Fanny  Cann,"  declared  Jack  Jope;  "yes,  you  would 
— you  cannot  hide  your  contempt  and  scorn  of  the 
race ;  but  Emma  here — she's  my  daughter,  and  as  I've 
had  the  art  to  move  women,  so  she's  had  the  art  to 
move  men,  haven't  you,  Emma?" 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

"  Yes ;  she've  always  had  the  art  to  move  'em — 
and  why?  Because  of  her  understanding.  Now  you, 
to  say  it  in  all  civility,  don't  like  'em.  In  fact  it 
wouldn't  be  stretching  truth  to  say  you  hate  'em. 
And  we  can't  properly  understand  what  we  hate. 
You'll  bear  me  out  there,  neighbours." 

"  'Tis  just  because  I  so  properly  understand  'em 
that  I  do  hate  'em,"  returned  the  spinster.  "  And  if 
other  women  was  to  see  through  your  shifty  ways  and 
humbug  and  selfishness  like  what  I  do,  we  should 
soon  band  together  and  work  something  against  you. 
Even  the  best  and  most  seeing  of  us,  such  as  Lizzie 
Trevail,  though  she's  on  the  right  track,  be  on  it  from 
wrong  motives.  She  won't  be  under  her  man's 
thumb;  but  she's  trying  to  lift  him  up  to  her  high 
opinions  and  can't  believe  me  when  I  say  'tis  wasted 
time  her  trying  to." 

"  Don't  you  say  that.  She'm  terrible  fond  of  him 
and  he's  terrible  fond  of  her.  I've  seen  'em  kiss  like 
lovers  in  the  quarry,"  declared  Mr.  Madders.  "  My 
eyes  be  sharper  than  anybody  knows  and  I've  got  a 
long  sight  that  will  put  to  shame  many  a  younger  man 
still.  And,  only  two  days  agone,  she  was  seeking  for 
.wood  strawberries  on  the  banks,  and  he  come  along 


THE  BEACON  261 

quite  by  accident  and  went  to  her  and  kissed  her. 
So  if  they  can  kiss  at  a  chance  meeting  'tis  very  well 
with  them." 

"  She'll  lift  him  if  it  may  be  done,"  said  Mr.  Jope. 
"  But  the  danger  lies  in  her  strong  feeling  again>i 
comfort  and  conveniences  and  all  that.  She's  a  un- 
comfortable sort  of  woman,  owing  to  her  great  dislike 
of  letting  well  alone.  'Twas  Trevail's  own  word  to 
me  and  he  made  no  secret  of  it.  A  soaring  woman 
no  doubt." 

"  As  we  all  should  be,"  said  Miss  Cann.  "  But 
she's  found  now,  like  many  another,  that  you  can't 
soar — not  with  a  wingless  creature  like  a  man  tacked 
on  to  you." 

'Tis  the  thing  we  love  best  we  understand  best," 
ventured  Emma.  "  With  my  Tom  I  never  will  ask 
him  to  soar,  because  it  ban't  his  way.  But  I  know 
him  so  well  that  I  know  just  what  he  can  do  and 
what's  within  his  power.  I  surprise  him  by  telling 
him  what  he  can  do;  I  don't  weary  him  by  telling  him 
what  he  can't." 

"  My  sense  to  a  hair ! "  said  the  shoemaker. 
"'Twas  even  so  with  my  wife.  When  she  grew 
weary  of  well-doing  and  said  us  mustn't  have  an- 
other child,  I  told  her  to  leave  all  such  problems  in 
Higher  Hands;  and  in  due  time  she  brought  forth 
again  and  felt  honest  pride  in  her  own  amazing  pow- 
ers. But  we  must  not  ask  our  fellow  men  to  do  im- 
possibilities. 'Tis  very  disappointing  work  and  it 
makes  'em  cruel  impatienl  and  lessens  love.  For  love 
they'll  try  anything;  and  then,  if  they  fail,  turn  round 
and  cast  the  blame  on  us.  The  true  wisdom,  as  Emma 
says,  is  to  see  whal  a  man  can  do  and  spur  him  to  do 
it.  But  if  you  ax  him  to  do  what  you  know  right 
well  be  outside  his  nature,  why  'tis  a  fool's  trick  and 
breeding  trouble." 

"None  knows  what  they  can  do  till  they  try,"  an- 
swered Miss  Cann,  "and  though    few  women  be  bet- 


262  THE  BEACON 

ter  aware  of  your  limits  than  what  I  am,  still  this 
nonsense  of  loving  blinds  our  eyes  too  often;  and  we 
see  you  not  as  you  are,  but  as  we  think  you  are.  And 
you  look  almost  worthy  of  us;  and  we  make  a  wrong 
and  silly  picture  of  you  and  ask  you  to  do  more  than 
you  can.  Every  high-minded  wife  has  a  false  picture 
in  her  mind,  and  the  ticklish  time  in  a  marriage  be 
when  her  false  picture's  found  out  and  the  true  one 
takes  its  place.  After  that  happens,  the  wise  woman 
keeps  her  mouth  shut  and  don't  ask  the  man  she's 
chained  to,  to  do  more  impossible  things.  Too  late 
she  sees  how  the  love  fever  fooled  her ;  and  she  comes 
down  and  down  and  down  in  her  demands;  till  at 
last  she's  content  if  the  creature  keeps  sober  and  faith- 
ful and  fairly  honest." 

A  man  or  two  stole  away  before  these  remarks. 
But  Miss  Cann  had  not  finished. 

"  I'll  say  to  you  what  I  said  to  Lizzie,"  she  con- 
tinued, addressing  Mrs.  Underhill.  "  Don't  you  hope 
too  much.  Tom  be  like  Charles  Trevail  in  some 
ways — a  slight  creature  for  all  his  fifteen  stone.  If 
he's  to  be  happy,  you'll  have  to  leave  him  alone;  and 
if  you  do  your  duty,  you  won't  leave  him  alone,  so 
there  you  stand — like  every  other  married  woman — 
in  a  proper  fix  between  your  conscience  and  your  com- 
fort. No  high-minded  female  has  the  right  to  let 
them  go  their  own  wretched  way;  but  they  being 
what  they  are,  so  sure  as  you  do  your  duty,  so  sure 
will  they  disgrace  themselves.  'Twill  take  centuries 
of  battle  before  they'm  got  under.  We  shan't  live  to 
mark  it;  we  shall  never  see  them  all  to  heel  and  in 
their  proper  places;  but  every  dog  has  his  day,  and 
ban't  the  bitches  to  have  theirs?  The  time's  ripe  for 
it  in  my  opinion." 

Before  this  attack  the  men  fell  off  and  dispersed. 
Soon  not  one  was  left,  and  then  Fanny  returned  to  a 
former  and  particular  theme. 

"  It  scatters  'em,  like  the  chaff  they  are,  to  hear  the 


THE  BEACON  263 

truth,"  she  declared.  "  But  leave  them  for  the  mo- 
ment and  tell  yonder  woman  to  go  out  of  the  bar.  I 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

Emma  bade  the  barmaid  depart. 

"  Tis  just  closing  time,"  she  said.     "  I'll  call  if  I 
want  you." 

"When  this  here  thing  happened,"  began  Miss 
Cann,  "  my  first  thought  was  never  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  you;  but  to-night  I've  changed  my  mind. 
I'm  fond  of  Tom,  not  because  he's  a  man,  but  because 
he's  my  nephew.  Minnie  had  too  lofty  a  touch. 
She  ought  to  have  married  a  bishop,  or  some  such 
thing,  for  such  a  man  could  have  appreciated  her 
parts.  But  to  Tom  she  was  gall  ever — like  the  sun- 
shine to  an  owl.  You  be  clean-minded  and  quick- 
witted seemingly  and  you've  said  a  thing  or  two  that 
pleased  me  to-night.  Guide  him  easy,  but  never  let 
go.  In  the  case  of  Lizzie  Trevail  and  Charles  you  can 
see  a  bit  how  not  to  do  it.  God  knows  I'm  talking 
treason,  for  I  ought  to  be  all  her  side;  and  so  I  am 
really.  But  the  brutes  can't  stand  fine  air.  They 
can't  breathe  it — they're  too  coarse  for  it.  'Tis  no 
good  taking  a  man  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  try- 
ing to  drag  him  out  of  his  skin  and  make  him  be  born 
again  in  Scripture  phrase.  It  can't  be  done.  A 
snake  can  cast  its  slough;  but  a  man  can't;  and  we 
can't  do  it  for  him.  In  Lizzie's  case  her  many-sided 
nature  be  fighting  against  his  narrow-mindedness ;  her 
thirst  for  change  and  advancement  is  up  against  his 
stubborn  will  to  stick.  And  each  in  the  heart  of  'em 
thinks  they  be  going  to  win;  and  so  sure  as  death 
both  will  lose.  I  blush  to  say  these  things,  for  I 
ought  to  take  a  higher  view  and  back  Lizzie  for  all 
I'm  worth.  But  there's  a  cruel  lot  of  difference  be- 
tween what's  right  and  what  makes  for  happiness; 
and  you — for  all  you'm  only  a  chit  and  a  scandal  and 
all  the  rest  of  it — you  have  the  commonsense  to  see 
you  can't  turn  Jack  o'  lantern  into  a  star.     You  say 


264  THE  BEACON 

you  be  going  to  surprise  Tom  by  showing  him  what 
he  can  do.  And  that's  sense.  Lizzie  be  mixing 
'  can't '  and  *  won't '  in  my  opinion.  But  there's  a 
wide  difference  and  because  her  lump  of  clay  can't 
turn  into  a  china  ornament,  'tis  no  good  tearing  and 
fretting  and  saying  he  won't.  Every  wife's  sorrow- 
ful duty  be  to  cut  her  coat  according  to  her  cloth." 

"  And  they  didn't  ought  to  begin  cutting  too  soon," 
declared  Emma.  "  'Tis  no  good  dashing  and  slashing 
at  a  man  and  beginning  to  shape  the  material  afore 
you  know  the  size  and  quality." 

"  Sense  again.  You  appear  to  know  what  you'm 
talking  about.  I  don't  praise  you  for  it,  mind. 
These  large-thinking  women,  like  Tom's  first  wife 
and  Lizzie  to  North  Combe,  be  far  finer  and  grander 
than  you ;  and  their  fineness  and  grandness  shows  itself 
when  they  be  called  to  clash  with  men;  but  you've 
got  what  they  have  not — a  seeing  eye.  You  can  sum 
the  men  up  better  than  they  can.  You  be  more  alive 
to  their  narrow  limits  and  mean  needs.  How  do 
you  hit  it  off  with  your  mother-in-law?  'Tis  to 
oblige  her  more  than  anything  else  that  I  came  to  see 
you  to-night." 

"  We  get  on  very  well  indeed.  She's  easy  to  please. 
Tom's  face  tells  her  all  she  wants  to  know." 

"  Don't  pander  to  her,  however." 

Emma  filled  Miss  Cann's  glass  again. 

"  'Tis  closing  time,"  she  said.  "  Would  you  like 
for  one  of  the  men  to  see  you  up  over?  'Tis  a  dark 
and  rough  night." 

"  No  thank  you,"  answered  the  elder.  "  I've  got 
my  stick  and  my  lantern.  When  the  time  comes 
I've  no  doubt  they  will  make  my  coffin  and  carry  me 
to  my  grave  and  lower  me  into  it  and  load  the  earth 
on ;  but  that's  all  I  shall  ever  ax  of  them." 


CHAPTER  XII 

LIZZIE  often  enjoyed  to  break  from  work  for  half 
an  hour,  stroll  down  to  the  quarry  and  climb 
to  the  mouth  of  the  kilns.  From  here  Tawton 
church,  framed  in  trees,  filled  up  the  middle  distance 
and  above  it  Cosdon's  arch  completed  the  earth  picture 
and  spread  in  a  right  bow  whose  apex  stood  above 
the  battlemented  church  tower.  Hither  she  came 
with  troubled  thoughts  on  a  day  in  late  August,  when 
the  darkness  of  the  foliage  was  as  yet  unbroken  by 
any  gleam  of  autumn.  Above  the  world  ranged 
mountains  of  golden  cumuli  sailing  along  the  blue, 
and  their  shadows  stained  the  Beacon's  bosom  with 
dim  purple  as  they  passed  before  a  gentle  western 
wind. 

In  a  moment  of  weakness  Trevail  had  hinted  to  his 
uncle  of  Elisabeth's  attitude  toward  the  quarry,  and 
a  period  of  tolerance  was  ended.  Charlie  mourned 
his  confession  too  late  and  Mortimore  raged. 

The  thing  had  happened  three  days  before  and  a 
collision  between  the  man  and  woman  was  inevitable. 
Trevail  felt  full  of  vain  regrets  and  begged  Lizzie  to 
forgive  him.  But  she  did  not  blame  him  and  made 
no  effort  to  avoid  the  old  man  as  her  husband  begged. 
He  would  seek  her  she  knew,  and  she  had  reached  a 
point  when  she  cared  very  little  what  might  come  of 
the  collision.  Her  husband's  attitude  to  the  quarry, 
the  shifts  that  he  had  made  to  win  it,  the  indignities 
to  which  he  had  submitted  on  his  uncle's  behalf — all 
tortured  her.  The  general  attitude  of  mankind  to 
Trevail  also  tortured  her.     She  loved  him  dearly  still, 

but  hope  was  dying.     She  began  to  know  that  it  was 

265 


266  THE  BEACON 

beyond  her  power  to  be  of  any  service  to  him.  It 
remained  also  beyond  her  power  to  be  neutral  and 
watch  him  slink  along  the  paths  that  his  nature  indi- 
cated. Yet  his  overmastering  love  for  her  seemed 
not  to  falter.  He  sank  under  her  strenuous  moods 
and  bent  to  them  as  the  twig  to  the  storm,  but  he 
sprang  upright  again  when,  out  of  sheer  weariness, 
she  relaxed  awhile.  He  tried  to  please  her  and  she 
knew  it;  but  his  ingenuous  attitude  to  the  world,  his 
lack  of  reticence,  his  love  of  the  easy  path  and  com- 
fortable resting-place — these  she  could  not  change. 
Neither  could  she  endure  them. 

Now  the  woman  looked  down  from  her  perch  and 
saw  Iron  Mortimore  below.  He  had  marked  her 
some  time  before  and  was  hurrying  towards  her.  She 
reflected,  then  left  the  top  of  the  kiln  and  went  into 
the  valley  to  meet  him. 

"  He  might  throw  me  over ! ':  she  thought,  yet 
laughed  at  her  thought. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  he  shouted  before  they 
met. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  answered.  "  I'm  come  to  meet 
you." 

"  Just  list  to  me,  please.  I've  had  about  enough 
of  this.  If  you're  going  to  play  fast  and  loose  with 
your  husband  and  choose  your  friends  from  his 
enemies,  'tis  time  he  knew  it." 

"  It  would  be,  but  you're  talking  nonsense." 

"  Don't  you  answer  me.  You  listen  and  speak 
after.  You've  always  done  all  you  could  to  come  be- 
tween me  and  my  nephew  ever  since  you  took  him ; 
and  'tis  time  you  stopped  if  you  don't  want  your 
blasted  neck  wrung.  How  do  you  dare  to  side  against 
him  and  me  in  this  matter?  You  might  just  so  soon 
be  unfaithful  to  the  man,  and,  for  all  I  know,  you  are. 
But  you've  got  to  choose  and  that  mighty  quick  be- 
tween your  friend  and  your  husband  now.  The  tend- 
ers go  in  next  week  and  I've  found  out  all  about  all 


THE  BEACON  267 

of  'em  but  Dunning's.  And  I  order  you  to  find  out 
his  and  report  it  to  me  afore  Thursday  night,  or  I'll 
cast  you  out.  By  God  I'm  in  earnest!  I  can  do  it. 
And  a  damned  good  riddance  too.  Who  be  you — 
some  nameless  London  dirt — to  come  between  me  and 
Charles  Trevail?  What  be  you  to  him  compared  to 
what  I  be  ?  What  are  you  good  for  but  to  weary  and 
nag  the  fool's  soul  out  of  his  body,  and  spoil  his 
nights,  and  torment  his  days  and  turn  the  food  sour  on 
his  stomach?  Blast  you!  I'll  hear  no  more  on  you. 
You  find  out,  and  damned  quick,  which  side  you  stand 
for  and  larn  from  me  that  you  can't  hunt  with  the 
hounds  and  run  with  the  hare." 

He  stopped  and  Lizzie  thought  a  moment  before 
answering. 

Tis  hard  to  make  you  understand,"  she  said,  "  be- 
cause you're  not  a  common  sort  of  man  and  haven't 
got  a  common  man's  sense.  Something's  been  left 
out  when  you  were  making — or  else  something  was 
put  in.  But  the  very  way  you  talk  to  a  woman  shows 
what  you  are.  And  I  have  tried  to  come  between  you 
and  Charlie,  and  I  always  will  try;  because  you  can't 
teach  Charlie  the  only  thing  you've  got  worth  learn- 
ing." 

"What's  that  then?" 

"  Your  power  to  work  and  your  hardness,  and 
your  scorn  of  all  that's  feeble  and  soft  and  cowardly. 
If  you  could  teach  him  that  I'd  be  glad  enough;  but 
what  you  do  teach  him  is  love  of  money,  and  that's 
poison  to  a  man  like  him.  It  don't  hurt  you,  because 
you're  three  parts  a  savage  and  you'd  be  just  as  happy 
to  hoard  beads  or  shells,  if  they  was  as  hard  to  come 
by  as  money.  You  hoard  for  the  sake  of  hoarding, 
and  money  don't  make  you  soft  and  silly :  it  makes 
you  hard  and  strong.  But  my  husband's  different 
from  that  and  you  know  it.  He  can  use  money.  He 
likes  what  money  can  do.  He's  always  looking  for- 
ward   to   ease   and    idleness   and    laziness — all    to    be 


268  THE  BEACON 

bought  with  money.  And  that's  why  I  try  to  make 
him  change." 

"  What  about  Dunning  then  ?  Your  smooth  tongue 
won't  explain  that  so  easy." 

"  Your  rough  tongue  don't.  You've  said  things 
to-day  that  none  but  you,  or  a  madman,  would  dare 
to  say.  Dunning  is  my  friend,  and  a  good  friend, 
and  a  wise  man.  But  as  to  his  business,  I  know  no 
more  of  it  than  I  know  of  yours.  And  as  to  trying 
to  learn  ought  of  it — why,  what  do  you  take  people 
to  be?  Because  you're  my  husband's  uncle,  is  that 
reason  why  I  should  try  to  steal  Reynold's  secrets 
about  the  quarry?  Let  me  mind  my  own  business. 
To  run  your  errands  and  plot  to  get  secrets  for  you 
is  none  of  my  work.  What  do  I  care  for  the  quarry? 
It  only  means  money.  I'm  sick  of  the  word,  for  it 
stands  between  my  husband  and  every  proper  thought. 
If  I  was  to  ask  Dunning  for  his  tender,  what  would 
he  say?     Laugh  at  me  I  should  think." 

"Don't  pretend  that.  He'd  tell  you.  He'd  trust 
you." 

"  It  isn't  the  tender,"  she  said.  "  I  know  that 
much.  He  made  no  secret  of  that.  It's  what  lies 
behind  the  tender.  He's  a  cleverer  man  than  you  are 
and  he  understands  something  about  the  quarry  you 
don't.  It's  the  knowledge  behind  the  tender.  The 
figures  wouldn't  help  you.  You  can't  go  below  a  cer- 
tain sum  and  still  quarry  at  a  profit." 

"  Now  you're  talking  sense.  We'll  mince  no 
words.  The  man  loves  you,  or  behaves  as  if  he  did. 
Well — there  'tis — you  be  the  only  creature  on  God's 
earth  can  get  his  secret  out  of  him.  Ask  for  it  and 
let  him  make  his  price.  What  the  devil  do  it  matter? 
Give  him  what  he  wants,  and  I'll  give  you  what  you 
want — that's  a  bargain." 

She  was  familiar  with  the  crudity  of  Mortimore's 
mind  and  his  proposition  did  not  astonish  or  dismay 
her.     It  was  like  the  man,  and  she  could  discuss  any 


THE  BEACON  2(59 

subject  without  a  blush  when  alone  with  him,  as 
easily  as  she  could  disrobe  in  the  presence  of  a  cat  or 
dog.  He  belonged  to  another  order  of  beings  and  she 
always  felt  it.  There  was  something  of  the  child  and 
much  of  the  brute  in  him. 

"  A  very  good  thought  from  your  point  of  view  no 
doubt,"  she  answered.  "  But  there  are  pretty  strong 
objections.  First  of  all  Reynold  Dunning  doesn't 
want  me  any  more  than  you  do." 

"  That's  a  lie  and  you  know  it,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Well — even  supposing  that  he  did;  what  about 
the  payment?  What  payment  could  you  make  me  if 
I  told  you  his  secret  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I'd  name  you  in  my  will.  I'd  give  you  whatever 
you  asked  for  in  reason." 

"Would  you  give  me  Charlie?" 

"  Yes,  and  welcome.  I'm  very  near  so  sick  of 
Charlie  as  you  are.  He  means  well — he's  done  a 
good  thing  here  and  there  for  me ;  but  he's  failed  over 
this.  You  succeed  where  he's  failed  and  show  me 
how  I  can  work  my  quarry  and  cut  out  that  chap  and 
I'll  give  you — I'll  give  you — " 

He  broke  off  and  she  spoke. 

"  Don't  tease  your  brains  to  think  what  you  can 
easiest  part  with.  'Tis  a  thousand  pities,  Uncle, 
you're  not  a  thought  more  like  other  people,  for  then 
you  and  me  would  have  got  on  very  well ;  but  we 
never  can  now.  I  know  how  you  feel  to  me — wicked 
— wicked.  You'd  like  to  tear  my  heart  out.  But 
I'm  not  afraid  of  you  now,  though  once  I  was. 
You're  only  a  sort  of  clever  tiger — wonderful  wits  for 
a  beast,  but  not  enough  for  a  man.  I  hate  the  \\a\ 
you  look  at  things.  I'm  sorry  for  you — very  near  as 
sorry  as  I  am  for  Charlie.  But  you're  both  past  pray- 
ing for.  I'd  have  done  great  things  for  you  botli  if 
I  could;  but  I'm  not  clever  enough  for  that.  I  can't 
do  any  good  now.     I  can't  make  my  Charlie  see  \\  ith 


270  THE  BEACON 

my  eyes.  I  can't  make  him — there,  what's  the  use  of 
talking?" 

He  stamped  and  swore. 

"  Talking — talking — 'tis  all  a  woman  can  do. 
They'm  no  use  for  anything  else.  Never  mind  me  or 
him.  What'll  you  try  to  get  Dunning's  secret  out  of 
him  for?" 

"  I'd  rather  never  see  him  again  than  do  it.  I 
don't  care  how  soon  he  has  the  quarry." 

He  blinked  at  her  like  a  wounded  hawk. 

"  You  say  that,  you  traitor !  Very  well  then — 
hear  me.  If  he  wins  now,  'tis  your  fault — if  he  wins, 
'tis  because  you've  helped  him  to  win;  and  so  sure  as 
that  happens,  you  shall  have  your  throat  slit  for  it! 
God's  my  judge  if  I  lose  the  quarry  I'll — I'll — you 
and  your  leaman  shan't  enjoy  it  anyhow — I  know — I 
know  how  'tis.  I  see  at  last.  You've  got  my  tender 
out  of  your  husband — wormed  it  out  of  him — and 
took  it  to  that  dog!  'Tis  hard  to  keep  my  fingers  off 
your  throat  when  I — " 

"  Ask  Charlie  if  he  has  told  me  your  tender,  or  if 
I  ever  asked  to  know  it.  Haven't  you  got  a  soul? 
Don't  you  believe  in  God?  Can't  you  see  where 
these  rages  will  land  you?  You'd  like  to  throw  me 
down  and  trample  me  this  moment;  but  why? 
What's  the  use?  Think — think  more !  If  I  can  teach 
you  nothing  else,  I  can  teach  you  that." 

"  You  bleat  your  hardest,  but  life's  life  and 
death's  death,"  he  said.  "  And  when  you  be  in  the 
shadow  of  death,  we'll  see  how  you  talk  then.  Warn 
him — warn  him  if  you  value  him — use  your  chattering 
tongue  for  a  sensible  purpose  for  once  and  warn  him 
that  if  he  takes  my  quarry  away  from  me,  he  can  go 
and  dig  your  grave  in  it!  No  man  shall  steal  my 
quarry  and  no  woman  shall  help  him  to  reap  my  har- 
vest. For  I'll  reap  them  if  they  do — both  of  them — 
and  God  in  heaven  kill  me  with  lightning  as  I  stand 
afore  you  now  if  I'm  making  a  vain  boast.     I'm  calm 


THE  BEACON  271 

— calm  as  yonder  pool.     Take  heed  to  yourself  then, 
for  what  I  say  is  solemn  truth." 

He  left  her  a  little  impressed  by  his  threats.  She 
knew  that  Dunning  would  laugh  at  them,  yet  guessed 
that  they  might  not  be  idle. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CHARLES  TREVAIL  was  not  the  man  to  find 
any  peaceful  road  through  the  coming  crises  of 
his  life.     He  recognised  a  wide  and  deep  obligation 
to  his  uncle;  he  loved  his  wife  passionately;  and  be- 
tween them  now  he  began  to  suffer.     Mortimore  was 
consistent,  Elisabeth  was  not.     The  man  never  bated 
from  his  fierce  policy  and  Trevail  knew  how  he  would 
think  and  feel  on  every  occasion ;  but  with  the  woman 
he  certainly  could  not  reckon,  because  she  could  not 
certainly  reckon  with  herself.     She  made  concessions 
to-day   and   to-morrow   withdrew   them;   to-day   she 
yielded  a  point  and  admitted  the  necessity  of  rela- 
tions with  Mortimore;   to-morrow   she  turned  upon 
herself  and  scorned  herself   for  weakness  and  con- 
demned her  own  admission.     Now  she  would  be  ad- 
amant and  declare  his  soul's  welfare  and  health  de- 
manded a  complete  upheaval  and  escape  from  local 
influences;   and   then,   after   he   had   gone   in   much 
trouble,  and  fought  with  himself,  and  considered  her 
views  and  debated  on  the  future,  should  he  comply 
with  them,  she  had  yielded  at  sight  of  his  woe-begone 
face  and  confessed  that  her  ideas  might  be  unreason- 
able.    Thankfully  then  he  returned   to  the  present; 
and  his  renewed  comfort  at  the  respite  only  served  to 
fire  his  wife  to   fresh  impatience  and  drive  her  to 
further  efforts  on  his  behalf. 

The  husband  was  weak,  but  he  was  not  a  fool  and 
he  perceived  the  ethical  significance  of  his  wife's  opin- 
ions far  more  clearly  than  she  supposed.  He  knew 
that  to  separate  himself  from  Iron  Mortimore  was 
a  course  of  double  value;  because  it  must  relieve  his 

spirit  of  an  incubus  and  a  degradation  and  it  must 

272 


THE  BEACON  273 

serve  mightily  to  increase  Elisabeth's  happiness. 
Against  that,  however,  he  set  a  duty  owed  to  the  old 
man.  He  thought  much  upon  the  difficulty  and  won- 
dered whether  he  could  serve  Mortimore  elsewhere 
as  well  as  at  North  Combe.  A  factor  that  weighed 
far  more  heavily  than  his  wife  supposed  was  the 
elder's  attitude  to  Lizzie.  Under  that  Charles  suf- 
fered indeed  and  it  became  daily  a  more  serious  tribu- 
lation. A  point  was  reached  when  Mortimore  refused 
ever  again  to  break  bread  with  his  nephew's  wife. 

Trevail  had  called  early  at  his  uncle's  house  and 
Mortimore  burst  forth  upon  the  matter. 

'  Don't  let  me  see  the  torment  no  more  or  I'll  do 
her  an  injury.  You  be  daft  on  the  carcase  of  her 
and  can't  see  the  beastly  nature  in  it.  My  fingers 
twitch  when  I  sight  that  woman!  Damnation — to 
think  that  a  creature  of  that  age — there,  I'll  suffer 
no  more  of  it.  'Tis  wrecking  your  life,  and  if  she 
was  my  wife  I'd  knock  her  on  the  head,  like  a  trouble- 
some cat,  and  put  her  in  a  sack  and  sink  her  in  my 
pond  some  fine  night  with  a  hundredweight  of  lime- 
stone to  keep  her  out  of  sight.  You  do  that,  and  I'll 
help  you ;  and  then  you'll  have  peace.  A  plotting  devil 
— but  you,  so  blind  as  you  are,  can't  see.  She's  hatch- 
ing God  knows  what  against  you  with  that  anointed 
villain  at  Clannaboro'.  Yes,  she  is ;  I'm  never  wrong 
and  you  needn't  shake  your  head,  because  it's  true. 
Choke  the  ginger-eyed  hag!     I'd — " 

"  Don't  you  take  on.  'Tis  the  difference  in  your 
natures.  She  means  well.  She's  got  a  peculiar  mind. 
Women  are  unreasonable.  'Tis  a  sort  of  fineness  in 
them  no  doubt,  but  they're  never  very  sane  where 
money's  concerned.  Either  they  undervalue  it  alto- 
gether and  despise  it  and  all  that;  or  else  they  sell 
their  souls  for  it.  Lizzie  thinks  I'm  too  fond  of 
money." 

"And  I've  made  you  so.  Can't  the  fretful,  mad- 
dening fool  see  that — ?  Blast  such  creatures!  Why 
18  J 


274  THE   BEACON 

the  mischief,  if  you  must  have  one,  don't  you  get  one 
without  such  a  lot  of  beastly  ideas?  Get  a  woman 
with  the  mind  of  a  sheep;  then  you'll  be  at  peace. 
One's  so  good  as  another  every  way  but  in  their  minds. 
We  don't  want  minds  in  'em.  If  they'd  been  left 
mindless  and  brains  had  run  in  the  man  mould  only, 
'twould  be  a  better  world  and  a  happier.  They  be 
at  the  bottom  of  half  the  plagues  of  life.  They  don't 
know  the  meaning  of  truth,  and  if  they  belong  to  a 
wretch,  'tis  enough  to  make  'em  scheme  and  plot  to 
ruin  him.  Always  against  them  that  they  ought  to 
back  up.  Always  wanting  a  new  thing — not  built  to 
be  faithful  and  true.  There's  not  a  cur  dog  but  can 
teach  them  what  they'd  be  better  for  knowing." 

"  You're  too  hard.  She  is  faithful  and  true.  She's 
got  a  noble  heart  in  her.  She's  right  often  enough. 
'Tis  I  ban't  worthy  of  her." 

"  She  thinks  so — baggage.  Worthy  of  her !  Damn 
her!  'Tis  for  you  to  be  worthy  of  me,  not  her.  At 
best  they'm  only  ornaments  and  at  worst  they'm — 
look  here,  be  rids  of  her  afore  she  works  more  harm ! 
Do  what  Tom  Underhill  done.  'Tis  only  a  question 
of  time.  Pick  up  another,  as  have  larned  in  some  hard 
school  to  mind  her  own  business.  To  meddle — to 
pry — to  lift  her  cursed  voice  in  men's  affairs — who 
ever  heard  the  like?  And  my  quarry — my  quarry — 
why,  how  the  devil  I've  suffered  it  I  don't  know.  I'd 
like  to  chain  her  in  the  midst  and  fire  a  ton  of 
dynamite  under  her  feet ;  I'd  like  to  throw  her  in  the 
kiln  and  let  her  roast  a  bit  till  she  shrieked  for  mercy ; 
I'd  like  to  stone  her  to  pulp  and  feed  my  fishes  with 
her." 

He  tramped  up  and  down  his  kitchen,  flung  his 
arms  about  him,  stamped  with  his  feet,  showed  his 
teeth  and  snapped  them  like  a  trap.  His  nephew 
strove  to  allay  this  wrath  but  Mortimore  bade  him  be 
silent. 


THE   BEACON  275 

"  Not  a  word  for  her — not  a  word !  You  know 
I'm  right ;  you  know  she's  a  snake  and  have  bit  the 
hand  that  have  fed  her.  A  birthday  present  I  gave 
the  wretch;  and  now  she's  scheming  with  her  lover  to 
get  the  quarry." 

"  Uncle !  you  shan't  say  these  things  to  me.  The 
horror  of  it !     I  can't  bear  no  more." 

'  Bear  ' ! — you'll  bear  till  your  weak  back  breaks. 
You've  only  just  begun  to  know  what  she  is.  And 
may  God  judge  me  if  I  lose  the  quarry — " 

'  You  won't  lose  the  quarry;  'tis  folly  to  think  it." 

"  If  I  do,  'tis  her  work  and  you'll  be  called  to  choose 
between  us.  I  might  kill  her.  But  that's  no  good — 
I  can't  kill  people.  But  you — you're  the  only  thing 
in  man's  shape  1  care  a  curse  for  and  if  you — there  it 
is.  You'll  be  called  to  choose,  and  if  you  cling  to  her, 
you  may  go  with  her  and  live  in  hell  for  the  rest  of 
your  fool's  days.  And  if  you  throw  her  off  and  spurn 
her,  then  I'll  show  you  'tis  true  what  you've  told  me 
oft  enough — that  I  be  your  master  and  your  first 
friend.  We  was  all  right  afore  this  gnat  stung  you; 
and  we'll  be  all  right  again.  But  she's  death  and 
damnation  both  and  you'll  never  draw  a  quiet  breath 
so  long  as  you  knuckle  under  to  her." 

"  You're  not  yourself  to-day.  This  business  is  un- 
settling you.  The  tenders  all  go  in  next  week  and  we 
shall  know  before  Michaelmas.  You'll  feel  easier 
then." 

"  Wouldn't  give  up  his  secret,  though  I'll  sware  she 
knows  it.  Wants  him  to  have  it  I  tell  you;  and  then, 
so  like  as  not,  if  you  don't  throw  her  off,  she'll  do  the 
same  for  you,  and  run  to  thai  devil  and  laugh  at  you. 
It"  you  was  a  man,  or  half  a  man,  you'd  take  a  man's 
care  that  the  laugh  should  be  <»'  your  side,  not  hei  , 
Kick  her  out  oi  your  house  and  tell  her  to  go  to  him 
and  ruin  him  body  and  soul.  Kick  the  whore  to  him, 
and  then,  so  like  as  not,  she'll  begin  plotting  against 


276  THE  BEACON 

him  and  torturing  him  and  making  his  life  a  plague. 
He's  always  hungered  for  her — let  him  have  her. 
'Twould  be  a  very  good  revenge." 

Trevail  perceived  the  helplessness  of  argument 
against  this  whirlwind.  Mortimore  went  out  pres- 
ently breathing  threats  and  curses,  while  his  nephew 
returned  home.  There  was  a  thought  in  his  mind 
to  approach  Dunning  on  the  subject  of  the  quarry  and 
try  if  diplomacy  might  still  conquer.  But  he  was 
not  sanguine.  In  some  recent  exchanges  Mortimore 
had  got  the  better  of  the  master  of  Clannaboro'.  It 
was  improbable  that  under  any  circumstances  Dun- 
ning would  yield  in  such  a  great  matter  as  the  quarry. 

Trevail  dismissed  the  idea  for  the  moment  and 
thought  deeply  upon  his  wife  as  he  returned  to  her. 
Iron  Mortimore's  savagery  and  brutality  defeated 
their  own  object,  and  he  smarted  to  think  of  the  fear- 
ful things  he  had  been  called  upon  to  hear.  That  his 
uncle  was  not  as  other  men,  he  knew ;  but  never  until 
now  had  he  heard  him  pour  out  such  vile  invective 
upon  any  woman.  He  was  angry  and  sore  at  such 
indecency.  He  felt  that  he  owed  his  wife  amends, 
though  she  had  not  heard  the  scene.  He  approached 
her  in  sympathy,  but  she,  knowing  nothing  that  was 
in  his  mind,  happened  not  to  be  in  a  sympathetic 
spirit. 

"  I've  been  with  uncle,"  he  said,  "  and  I'm  afraid 
we're  going  to  have  trouble  before  long." 

"  What  else  do  we  have?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  it's  no  good  pretending  this  can  go  on, 
Lizzie.  You  and  him — you  know.  He's  been  in  one 
of  his  mad  fits  to-day." 

"  He's  always  mad.  That's  what  I  know  and  you 
don't.     If  I  could  only  make  you  see  that — " 

"  He  seems  so  to  you,  because  you're  so  sane." 

"  Not  always — not  lately.  You  must  be  a  little 
mad  if  you  want  to  be  happy.  But  I'm  saner  than 
him  and  so  are  you." 


THE  BEACON  277 

"  I've  got  great  and  unsettling  ideas  in  me  to-day. 
I  want  you  to  comfort  me  a  bit,  Lizzie." 

She  sighed. 

"  Wish  I  could.  It  isn't  for  want  of  trying  that  I 
fail." 

"  You  can  and  you  always  do.  D'you  know  what 
he  said  to  me  an  hour  ago  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  listlessly.  She  was  weary  of 
life  at  this  time  and  consciousness  of  utter  failure  had 
hung  like  a  fog  thick  upon  her  for  many  days. 

"  Tisn't  often  you  come  to  me  for  sympathy  from 
him.  Generally  the  other  way  about:  you  go  to 
him  from  me — to  learn  how  to  manage  me,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that.  He  said  just  now  that  I'd 
pretty  soon  have  to  choose  between  him  and  you — a 
bit  of  a  startler,  eh?  " 

"He  saw  that?" 

"  He  put  it  so.  And  sometimes  in  a  downcast  way, 
like  now,  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  he's  right.  But 
then  I  come  to  you,  for  you  know  that's  nonsense." 

"  I  know  how  you'd  choose  if  you  had  to." 

"  I  should  hope  you  do,  Lizzie.  I  should  feel  'twas 
the  beginning  of  the  end  with  a  vengeance  if  you 
didn't.  But  of  course  it's  all  part  of  his  madness, 
talking  like  that.  We  must  give  and  take  and  pull 
together  still.  We're  not  children,  if  he  is  some- 
times." 

"  You  calmed  him  down  of  course  and  told  him — 
what?  That  he  was  more  to  you  than  anything  else 
in  the  world ;  and  that  you'd  see  that  I  behaved  bet- 
ter and  didn't  cross  him." 

"Don't  talk  so;  you  know  how  little  I  do  without 
consulting  you.  I'm  a  fool  and  weak  and  feeble  and 
all  else  you  think  me;  but  I  respect  you  and  respect 
your  name  and  take  good  care  that  others  shall  re- 
spect it.  If  you'd  heard  me  speak  to  him  you  would 
not  treat   me   like   this;   but   you're  always   quick   to 


278  THE  BEACON 

think  I  can  do  no  right;  always  doubtful  of  my  pow- 
ers." 

"  I'm  doubtful  of  my  powers,  not  yours.  I  thought 
I  had  more  power,  that's  all.  You're  much  more 
powerful  than  I  thought  you  were." 

"  We  won't  drag  over  the  old  ground  again,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  idle  to-day.  Will  you  come  for  a  long 
walk?     We'll  go  up  on  Cosdon." 

"  I  can't.     I'm  busy." 

"  Do  come,  Lizzie." 

"  It  isn't  possible  now.     If  you'd  asked  me  sooner." 

"  I  can't  do  right  to-day."  ' 

She  was  angry — with  the  stupid,  unreasoning, 
causeless  anger  that  overtakes  every  human  soul  some- 
times. She  knew  it;  and  she  was  angry  with  herself 
for  being  angry.     But  the  poison  had  to  flow. 

"  You're  always  right  in  your  own  eyes  and  you 
reproach  me  every  hour  of  the  day  for  thinking  dif- 
ferently. I'm  a  ceaseless  grievance — that's  what  I 
am.  I'm  a  grievance  all  the  time,  because  I  try  to  be 
a  help  and  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  and  fret  my 
hair  grey  for  you.  And  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer. 
I'll  give  you  one  more  bit  of  advice  and  only  one;  and 
that  is  to  decide  which  side  your  bread  is  buttered  on. 
I'm  not  going  to  give  way  to  that  evil  old  ruffian  for 
you  or  anybody;  but  if  you  are  going  to,  then  do  it, 
and  have  done  with  it.  He's  right  for  once :  it  will 
be  me  or  him  before  long,  and  the  sooner  you  settle 
which,  the  better  for  your  peace  of  mind.  Only  take 
care  that  you  don't  land  yourself  where  the  likes  of 
you  always  land  yourself  sooner  or  late,  and  fall  to 
the  ground  between  two  stools." 

He  had  seldom  seen  her  so  angry  or  with  such  little 
reason.  He  stared  at  her  and  she  passed  him  and  left 
him  staring.  There  was  a  coarse  grain  in  her  temper 
that  he  had  never  known  until  now.  He  felt  that 
something  had  demoralised  her;  he  knew,  despite  her 
hail  of  words,  that  she  was  angrier  with  herself  than 


THE  BEACON  279 

with  him.  He  tuned  himself  to  patience — not  a  high 
or  noble  resignation;  only  the  mean  patience  of  a 
lowly  creature.  He  did  not  follow  her  but  stuck  to 
his  purpose  and  went  out  alone.  Some  whim  made 
him  persist  in  the  idea  of  visiting  Cosdon ;  and  he  did 
so.  He  roamed  the  familiar  spots  sacred  to  his 
romance  and  his  mind  traversed  many  moods.  Now 
he  burned  with  love  for  Lizzie;  now  he  resented  her 
unkindness;  now  he  felt  gratitude  to  Mortimore; 
now  he  became  deeply  incensed  when  he  reflected  on 
the  recent  conversation  with  him.  He  told  himself 
that  there  was  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides  and  that 
both  Mortimore  and  Lizzie  were  right  in  a  measure. 
But  what  must  be  his  course  between  them?  He 
began  to  be  very  sorry  for  himself.  Then  he  adopted 
a  more  masculine  attitude  and  told  himself  that  it 
should  be  within  his  tact  and  skill  to  reconcile  these 
opposites  and  establish  peace  between  them.  Hours 
of  futile  thought  passed  over  him.  He  suffered  and 
the  character  of  his  reflections  were  not  sanguine.  A 
ray  lighted  the  cloud  from  time  to  time,  but  it 
swiftly  vanished.  He  loved  his  wife  fondly  and  the 
balance,  as  he  turned  homeward,  belonged  to  her.  If, 
indeed,  it  became  a  question  of  choice  between  the 
man  and  the  woman,  he  could  not  conceive  of  him- 
self as  hesitating.  But  now  he  declared  that  no  such 
last  resort  need  be  apprehended.  For  the  moment 
the  problem  of  Abraham  Mortimore  appeared  more 
pressing  than  any  other.  If  he  lost  the  quarry,  his 
nephew  knew  not  what  might  happen,  and  he  felt 
that  now,  while  yet  a  little  time  remained,  no  trouble 
would  be  too  great  to  retain  the  property  in  his 
uncle's  hands.  Lizzie  could  wait.  She  was  tacitly 
against  her  own  in  this  question,  and  the  less  that  the 
matter  came  to  her  ear  the  better.  The  thought 
angered  him  against  her  again.  He  was  plucking 
some  spikes  of  bog  myrtle  to  carry-  to  her  when  he 
remembered    it,    and    he    actually    hesitated    in    doubt 


280  THE  BEACON 

whether  to  fling  them  away.  His  unstable  mind  was 
framed  on  this  pattern,  and  so  frail  appeared  its  con- 
stitution that  one  thought  thus  for  ever  confounded 
another.  It  was  the  commonest  circumstance  with 
him  to  let  a  chance  act  of  memory  interfere  with  deeds 
to  be  executed,  or  in  actual  process  of  execution. 

But  he  kept  the  bog  myrtle  and,  as  he  descended 
the  hill  towards  evening,  there  came  a  sunset  glow 
that  touched  him  to  sentimentality  and  moved  him 
to  emotions,  not  maudlin  but  not  manly.  He  de- 
cided henceforth  to  throw  in  his  lot  with  Lizzie  and 
set  her  above  all  other  temporal  interests.  He  saw 
that  her  prophecy  might  actually  come  true  if  he  was 
not  careful.  He  felt  frightened  for  himself  a  little 
between  his  uncle  and  his  wife.  He  returned  home 
weary  and  dispirited,  but  affirmed  to  stand  by  Lizzie, 
come  what  might,  after  the  destination  of  the  quarry 
was  determined. 

None  the  less  he  looked  at  the  future  with  grief  and 
was  blown  back  into  a  dull  dislike  and  resentment 
when  he  thought  upon  his  wife.  He  doubted  the  love 
that  could  call  him  to  such  suffering  as  this  day  had 
brought  him.  He  did  not  believe  that  she  cared  for 
him  as  she  was  wont  to  care.  He  asked  himself 
whether  his  own  love  was  built  of  stuff  to  stand  dim- 
inution in  hers.  He  felt  that  she  was  cruel,  and  a  love 
that  could  be  cruel  was  not  the  love  that  he  coveted. 
He  argued  in  a  circle  helplessly  and  came  home  mind- 
weary. 

But  a  very  penitent  woman  welcomed  him  and 
fondled  him  into  cheerful  hope. 

Lizzie  wept  when  he  returned  with  his  bunch  of 
bog-myrtle.  She  heaped  all  manner  of  reproaches  on 
herself  and  declared  that  until  they  had  walked  to- 
gether again  on  Cosdon  and  sat  together  in  the  cairn 
crown  of  it,  she  would  not  have  another  happy  mo- 
ment. They  planned  a  journey  thither  before  they 
slept. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CHARLES  TREVAIL  went  to  see  Dunning  at 
Clannaboro'.  He  came  by  appointment,  but 
knew  that  his  mission  was  vain  even  before  he  started. 
Yet,  in  his  battle  for  Abraham  Mortimore,  no  chance 
of  success  however  slight  was  overlooked,  and  if  an 
infirm  purpose  and  uncertainty  of  decision  marked 
most  of  his  life's  relations,  it  could  not  be  brought 
against  him  that  he  had  left  one  stone  unturned  to 
assist  his  uncle  in  the  matter  of  the  quarry.  Elisabeth 
had  not  failed  to  mark  this  sustained  effort,  and  the 
resolute  endeavour  that  had  led  Trevail  to  make  such 
immense  sacrifices  of  time  and  energy  impressed  her. 
Had  it  been  for  any  other  cause;  had  he  laboured 
in  some  forlorn  hope  which  she  too  favoured,  such 
efforts  must  have  brought  her  wide  satisfaction;  as 
it  was  they  gave  no  pleasure. 

Dunning  was  at  the  gate  of  his  farm  when  Trevail 
arrived  and  suggested  that  they  should  sit  in  the 
garden.  He  was  taciturn  and  listened  without  inter- 
ruption while  the  other  spoke. 

"  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  have  come  on  this  errand, 
Dunning,  but  you  know  the  last  effort  may  some- 
times save  a  cause.  It's  the  quarry.  I  want  to  speak 
to  you  afore  the  tenders  go  in.  I  want  to  ask  you  if 
by  any  power  of  mine  I  can  make  you  see  different. 
Of  course  I'm  interested  for  my  uncle.  You  know 
what  that  place  is  to  him.  He's  worked  it  for  count- 
less years;  it's  his  life  in  a  sort  of  way.  Nothing 
else  matters  in  his  mind  beside  the  quarry.  But 
you — you  have  such  a  lot  of  interests.  You're 
younger  and  cleverer  than  him.  He's  getting  old,  too. 
He'll  drop  out  afore  long  anyway,  and  if  you  could 

281 


282  THE  BEACON 

but  see  your  way  to  meet  him  there —  And  for  my 
part  I  should  feel  under  a  great  debt,  Dunning." 

Trevail  ceased,  but  the  other  made  no  answer. 

Presently  the  younger  proceeded. 

"Of  course  I  know  it  looks  absurd,"  he  said;  "  but 
the  absurd  things  often  happen.  I'm  not  asking  you 
to  hold  back  fcr  nothing.  I  can  promise  that  we 
should  make  pretty  substantial  concessions  and  never 
again  come  between  you  and  anything  you  were  set 
on  in  any  other  quarter.  You  and  my  uncle  have 
been  rivals,  in  a  sort  of  way,  for  years  and  years — 
haven't  you?  And  sometimes  you  have  bested  him 
and  sometimes  he  has  bested  you;  but  'tis  very  certain 
you'd  have  him  for  a  friend  for  ever  more  over  this 
job  if  you  gave  way  to  him  in  it.  And  he's  a  friend 
worth  having — you  can't  deny  that.  He's  a  strong 
man  and  gets  his  way;  but  he's  clever  enough,  too, 
and  he  knows  very  well,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
that  you  and  he  are  the  only  ones  that  count  in  this 
matter." 

"How  does  he  know  that?"  asked  Dunning. 

"  Because  he  knows  you.  He  knows  that  if  you 
had  not  been  pretty  sure  of  yourself,  you  wouldn't 
have  tendered   for  the  quarry." 

"  What's  he  frightened  of?  Does  he  think  I  under- 
stand more  about  the  quarry  than  him  ?  ' 

"  He's  frightened  of  your  tender.  He  knows  that 
he  has  bested  you  here  and  there  of  late,  and  he  guesses 
that  you've  sent  in  a  lower  tender  than  his,  for  the 
sake  of  getting  him  out." 

"  He  thinks  I'd  lose  on  a  tender — just  to  spite 
him?" 

"  He  thinks  you  might  do  that." 

"  You're  lying,"  said  Dunning  bluntly.  '  Morti- 
more  in  his  maddest  moments  never  thought  I'd  lose 
money  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  smart.  I  care 
no  more  whether  he  smarts  than  whether  the  worm 
smarts   when    I   put   my   spade    into   the   ground,   or 


THE   BEACON  283 

whether  you  smart  to  hear  me  now.  You're  lying — 
'tis  your  thought,  not  his,  that  I'm  tendering  for  the 
quarry  to  spite  him.  You  may  so  soon  say  I  ten- 
dered for  your  wife  to  spite  you.  I  offer  for  the 
quarry  because  I  want  it,  and  I  probably  offer  more 
for  it  than  Mortimore,  because  I  know  how  to  make 
it  pay  better  than  he  does.  As  for  you,  you're  a  fool 
to  know  me  all  these  years  and  not  to  know  me  better. 
To  come  over  here  and  bleat  this  twaddle  to  a  man 
like  me!  What'll  you  do  next?  I'd  never  have  be- 
lieved it.  But  I  suppose  you  think  you're  all  power- 
ful." 

"  Little  enough  power  about  me.  I  only  came  for 
friendship  to  my  uncle.  He  doesn't  know  I'm  here. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  hard  thing  that  he  should  lose  the 
quarry,  and  so  I  strained  a  point  to  help  him  keep  it. 
But  you're  right:  I  might  have  known  that  things 
being  as  they  are  between  us,  you  would  hardly  see 
that  it  might  be  a  fine  deed  to  yield.  Might's  right 
with  you  always." 

"But  not  with  Mortimore — eh?  Not  when  he's 
got  his  soft-hearted,  God-fearing  nephew  to  stroke 
him  down  the  right  way?  Such  a  gentle,  kindly  old 
man,  isn't  he?  Always  stretching  out  his  hands  to 
do  the  people  a  good  turn.  Just  the  man  that  any 
decent  person  would  be  proud  to  sacrifice  himself  for 
— eh?  I  ought  to  blush  to  tender  for  the  quarry  at 
all.  It  would  better  become  me  and  the  others  to 
subscribe  and  pay  his  rent  for  him,  so  that  he  shan't 
be  troubled  in  his  old  age  and  have  all  the  profits  and 
none  of  the  pains?  Tell  him  when  I  have  the  quarry, 
he  can  come  and  work  in  it  for  me  if  he  pleases.  And 
now  you'd  best  begone." 

Trevail  was  angry. 

"  Civility  costs  nought,"  he  said,  "  else  I  wouldn't 
urge  it  upon  you:  but  a  civil  tongue  you  might  keep 
in  your  teeth  for  me.  I've  as  much  right  to  work  for 
my   uncle   as   you   have  to   work   against   him.     And 


284  THE  BEACON 

more — since  I  can't  avail  him,  I'll  speak  for  myself, 
though  I  hadn't  meant  to  do  that.  I'm  not  afeared 
that  you  can  do  my  wife  any  harm  by  your  talk,  but 
I  know,  to  my  cost,  that  it  don't  do  her  any  good ; 
and  when  you  next  meet,  I'll  thank  you  to  remember 
she's  a  Christian  woman  and  the  wife  of  a  Christian 
man." 

"  That's  better,"  answered  the  other.  "  Now  you 
be  saying  something  that  interests  me  and  looks  to  be 
worth  answering.  Your  wife  is  all  right;  but  you'll 
have  to  change  a  lot  if  you  think  to  keep  her  all  right." 

"You  told  her  that  no  doubt?" 

"  Not  a  chance !  She  told  me.  No  news  either. 
You  would  have  liked  for  her  to  get  my  tender  out  of 
me,  no  doubt;  and  find  out  how  'twas  that  I  could 
send  it  in  so  clever ;  and  what  I  knew  about  the  quarry 
that  your  old  turtle-dove  don't  know." 

"  She  told  you  that !  " 

"  Wrong  again.  But  I  know  Mortimore  and  I 
know  you.  I  know  what  you'd  think  was  a  smart 
thing  to  do ;  and  I  know  what  price  Mortimore  would 
pay  if  he  could  learn  what  I  know.  You're  a  fine 
pair.  Brute  strength  and  cleverness  combined — hunt- 
ing in  a  couple — and  I  snap  my  fingers  at  the  both  of 
you ;  because  I'm  stronger  than  him  and  cleverer  than 
you;  and  you'll  know  it  afore  you  kill  your  Michael- 
mas geese  I  daresay." 

Trevail  considered  and  then  spoke. 

"  You  mustn't  talk  like  that." 

"  That  I  should  correct  a  husband  in  his  view  of 
his  wife!  A  funny  world  by  God!  But  there  'tis: 
Mrs.  Trevail's  no  traitor.  She'd  so  soon  have  told 
me  Mortimore's  tender  as  told  you  mine.  I  rate  her 
higher  than  you  do.  I  understand  her  better.  I  told 
her  my  tender.  Yes,  she  knows  it,  and  you  can  stop 
on  your  knees  after  you  say  your  prayers  to-night 
and  pray  to  her  to  tell  you  what  it  is.  But  she 
won't.     You  must  learn  to  trust  her  and  lift  your 


THE  BEACON  285 

eyes  to  her  fine  nature.  You  mustn't  call  her  a 
traitor;  because  if  you  say  that  sort  of  thing,  she'll 
damned  soon  chuck  you." 

The  younger  took  this  banter  ill. 

"  You're  poison  for  any  woman,  and  I'll  have  no 
more  of  it.  If  she's  so  blind  to  what  is  right  as  to 
listen  to  you,  and  let  you  ruin  her  faith  in  God,  and 
in  me,  and  in  everything — then  'tis  time  her  husband 
spoke.  You're  doing  wrong  and  you  know  you  are. 
There  ought  to  be  no  confidence  between  you  and 
her,  and  I  forbid  it  once  for  all.  If  you  know  her  well 
enough  to  tell  her  your  secrets,  then  you  know  her 
better  than  you  ought  to,  and  weak  as  you  may  think 
me,  I'm  not  weak  there.  I've  had  enough  of  it  and 
I've  heard  your  opinions  preached  too  often  of  late. 
Not  that  she  comes  back  from  you  happy,  Reynold 
Dunning.  She  don't — 'tis  just  the  other  way.  She 
knows  the  stuff  you  tell  be  trash;  but  it  unsettles  her 
mind  and  makes  my  practical  way  of  looking  at 
things  all  seem  dull  and  silly.  'Tis  very  easy  to  talk 
wildly  and  wickedly,  when  you  know  that  you've  not 
got  to  pay  the  cost;  'tis  very  easy  to  poison  a  mind, 
when  you  know  that  you'll  not  have  to  purify  it  again. 
But  I'll  stand  no  more  of  it.  I  order  you  to  let  my 
wife  be,  and  forbid  you  to  see  her  any  more.  And 
when  I  get  home,  I'll  tell  her  so." 

"  I  shouldn't  do  that.  We  must  give  and  take  and 
she's  a  lot  wiser  than  you.  She  wants  a  bit  of  joy  in 
her  life  still — she's  not  too  old  for  that.  She  wants 
to  be  free,  and  she  wants  to  see  you  free.  If  you  tell 
her  to  cut  me,  d'you  know  what  she'll  be  like  to  do?  " 
She'll  obey." 

She  might  or  might  not.  If  she  told  you  never 
to  have  no  more  truck  with  Mortimore  on  pain  of  her 
displeasure,  what  would  you  do?" 

"The  cases  aren't  the  same." 

"Nearer  than  you  might  guess.  'Tis  her  soul 
you're  bothering  over  seemingly.     You  think    1   shall 


.. 


286  THE  BEACON 

spoil  it.  And  'tis  your  poor  little  chick  of  a  soul  she's 
sighing  for.  Fancies  'twill  make  a  full-sized  eagle 
some  day;  thinks  that  your  old  uncle  be  spoiling  it. 
So  if  you  distrust  me,  she  distrusts  him.  That's  a 
good  friendly  hint — eh?" 

"  I'll  hear  no  more  of  this !  Do  I  want  you  to 
teach  me  my  duty — and  to  my  wife  of  all  people? 
It's  an  outrageous  and  indecent  and  sickening  thing, 
and  I've  had  enough,  and  I  order  you  never  to  speak 
to  her  again!  " 

Dunning  laughed.  He  had  an  appointment  with 
Lizzie  for  a  day  in  the  future  on  Cosdon  Beacon. 

"  An  order's  an  order  no  doubt ;  but  you  can't 
order  me  not  to  see  your  wife  any  more  than  you  can 
order  me  not  to  win  the  quarry.  If  I'd  ordered  you 
not  to  marry  Mrs.  Trevail  a  bit  ago,  you  would  have 
thought  I  was  gone  in  my  head.  No,  no;  you 
mustn't  order  people.  You  must  leave  that  to  your 
old  man.  You're  not  strong  enough,  Trevail.  You 
must  sing  small  and  creep  along  by  the  hedge  with 
the  caterpillars;  and  if  you  be  bold  enough  to  launch 
out  and  cross  the  road,  you  must  take  your  life  in 
your  hands  and  only  hope  that  no  wheel  or  hoof  will 
spoil  you.  Don't  you  order  people;  you  obey  them. 
Your  pattern  of  happiness  is  best  got  through  doing 
what  you're  told.  And  here's  another  tip,  since  I'm 
feeling  in  a  kindly  mood.  The  sort  that  Lizzie  would 
set  store  by  be  the  Mortimore  sort,  not  you.  She 
don't  hate  your  uncle  because  he's  your  uncle:  she 
hates  him  because  he  makes  you  look  such  a  poor 
thing.  If  you  fought  him  and  beat  him,  she'd  put  a 
crown  on  your  head  and  go  an  inch  higher  herself. 
But  you  can't  do  that.  She  thought  she'd  teach  you 
how  to.  But  she  can't  do  that.  If  you  was  to  knock 
me  on  the  head  this  minute;  if  you  was  to  kill  me, 
she'd  say  her  prayers  to  you  for  evermore.  But. 
again,  you  can't  do  that.  Yet,  what  a  fine  stroke 
'twould  be — eh?     I  drop  and  you  tell  her.     Then  she 


THE  BEACON  287 

suddenly  finds  out  that  she's  married  a  man  after  all ; 
and  Mortimore  gets  the  quarry.  Think  of  it!  Tis 
well  worth  the  pains." 

"  You're  a  mocking,  evil  devil  at  heart,  and  I  could 
wish  you  were  away  from  here.  I'll  waste  no  more 
of  your  time  or  my  own.  But  keep  far  from  my  wife 
and  don't  see  her  no  more,  else  I  may  take  you  at  your 
word  and  surprise  you  painfully.  None  loves  peace 
better  than  I  do;  but  I  mean  real  peace,  not  a  fancied 
pretence  of  it.  I've  spoke,  and  I  look  to  you  as  an 
honest  man  to  heed  me.  Life  is  a  difficult  matter, 
Dunning;  but  we  needn't  make  it  more  difficult  than 
it  is — for  ourselves  or  our  neighbours.  I've  told  you 
what  I  wish,  and  there  can  be  no  honest  reason  why 
you  shouldn't  fall  in  with  my  wish." 

"  What  if  to  fall  in  with  your  wish  be  to  fall  out 
with  your  wife?  " 

The  other  leapt  up  in  a  fury. 

"  No  more  of  this!  "  he  said.  "You're  a  damned 
scoundrel  and  I'm  glad  I  know  it.  Now  take  heed 
where  you  stand,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you!  I'm 
a  mild  man,  but  when  you  do  rouse  a  mild  man,  he's 
often  the  hardest  to  stop." 

Trevail  went  off  and  the  other  watched  him  go. 
There  was  neither  scorn  nor  concern  upon  his  face. 
He  entered  his  house  a  moment  later  and  pursued 
the  tenor  of  his  thoughts  in  a  question  to  Mrs.  Val- 
lance,  who  was  laying  the  tea-table.  She,  however, 
spoke  first. 

"  Ban't  Mr.  Trevail  coming  in  to  tea?' 

"  No,  I've  vexed  him.  Look  here,  Mercy,  have  'e 
ever  heard  what  the  cock-robin  did  when  the  weasel 
robbed  his  wife's  nest?  ' 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  him  and  his  wife  raged  at  it  something 
terrible  and  cried  out  that  they'd  have  justice  if 
heaven  fell  for  it.  And  they  planned  to  do  such 
things  against  the  weasel   as  would   make  the   whole 


288  THE  BEACON 

world  shiver.  And  everybody  waited  in  a  cold  sweat 
to  see  what  they  would  do.  And  what  was  it,  do  you 
think?" 

"What  could  they  do?" 

"  Exactly  so !  They  did  what  they  could.  And  it 
was — nought." 


CHAPTER  XV 

SHORT  of  the  summit  itself  Elisabeth's  favourite 
haunt  on  Cosdon  was  a  narrow  cleft  that  fell  west- 
ward between  two  high  ridges  of  heath  and  stone.  It 
carried  a  little  stream  to  Taw  river  in  the  valley  far 
beneath,  and  the  beck  wound  and  tumbled  and  sang 
beneath  stout  sallows  dwarfed  by  the  winds  that 
rushed  up  the  cleft  like  a  chimney.  The  place  was 
knee-deep  in  ling  and  fern,  and  the  water  ran  beneath, 
peeped  out  in  occasional  pools,  flashed  -now  and  then 
from  tiny  falls  and  showed  a  twinkling  face  before  it 
vanished  again  to  sing  unseen.  Green  grass  and  the 
sky-blue  bells  of  the  ivy-leaved  campanula  made  dewy 
cushions  about  its  marge ;  round  a  little  granite  goblet 
there  grew  asphodels  and  rosy  sundews,  pale  butter- 
wort  and  the  marsh  violet;  while  the  banks  rose  high 
on  either  side  and  the  hollow  offered  many  a  snug 
nook  and  hiding-place,  holt  and  harbour.  It  was 
sheltered  from  east  and  north ;  but  the  west  wind 
found  it  and  the  westering  light  before  sunset  time 
often  warmed  it  with  the  delicious  apricot  glow — 
roseal,  gentle  and  tender — that  Lizzie  best  loved  of 
all  radiant  things  and  called  '  her  light.'  And  as  the 
sun  sank  behind  the  Belstones,  their  shoulders  threw 
a  broad  shadow  across  the  valley  and  slowly  swal- 
lowed up  the  cleft  until  detail  departed  from  it  and  it 
lay  darkling,  like  a  wound,  on  the  round  bosom  of  the 
Beacon. 

She  was  superstitions  concerning  the  stream — or 
pretended  to  be.  But  of  late  her  woven  fancies  and 
gift  for  building  romance  from  the  uplifted  loneliness 
had  suffered  under  fret  of  living.  The  strength  and 
virtue,  the  imagined  magic  and  mystery  of  Cosdon 
'9  289 


290  THE  BEACON 

dwindled  in  her  heart  and  the  dreaming  times  were 
fewer.  She  was  becoming  an  unhappy  woman  and 
reality  began  to  tumble  down  her  airy  castles. 

Reality  appeared  now,  for  a  man  came  to  her  at 
the  tryst.  Indeed  he  had  been  there  before  her  and 
ascended  from  a  lower  spot  in  the  same  gap  that  she 
had  reached  from  above. 

"  I  thought  you  was  used  to  drink  of  this  rill  and 
count  it  precious,"  he  said.  "  You  often  told  me  that 
all  the  hill's  virtue  bubbled  up  with  the  stream;  and 
you  drank  it  in — like  the  wild  savages  think  they 
drink  a  fallen  enemy's  strength  and  cunning  with  his 
blood." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  The  time's  past  for  fancies  and  nonsense.  I've 
got  to  be  stronger  and  wiser  now.  There's  things 
happening  where  the  Beacon  can't  help  me." 

"  I  don't  believe  that." 

A  large  bird  was  fluttering  near  them — restless  and 
unhappy.  Dunning  looked  about  and  presently  called 
the  woman's  attention  to  what  he  found.  Two  tiny 
fledgelings  sat  on  a  stone  together  and  their  colour 
was  that  of  the  mottled  granite. 

"  They  be  young  churn  owls — come  too  late,"  he 
said.  "  Well  may  the  mother  bird  go  in  fear.  She'll 
never  rear  'em  now  with  winter  at  the  door  again." 

"  Let's  go  further  off,  so  as  the  poor  bird  can  bring 
food  to  them." 

"  'Tis  no  use.  'Twould  be  kinder  to  crush  'em  and 
have  done." 

They  moved,  however,  and  Lizzie  watched  the 
parent  return. 

"  Nature's  full  of  things  like  that,"  said  Dunning. 
"  Countless — countless  the  cruel  blunders  she  makes 
— in  minds  and  bodies  both.  We  all  get  under  her 
wheel  some  time  or  other ;  and  some  she  kills  and  some 
she  maims;  and  her  truest  kindness  is  a  swift  death. 
'Tis  all  I'd  ever  pray  to  her  for." 


THE  BEACON  291 

"  You  can  always  see  the  dark  side,"  she  said. 
"  You  can  always  mark  the  last  year's  dead  leaves, 
but  never  the  spring  flowers.  You  see  the  battle  un- 
der every  leaf  and  in  every  breast;  but  never  the  beau- 
tiful things.     Have  you  never  had  a  joy?  " 

'  Not  yet ;  but  I'm  hopeful  still.  I'd  like  to  dream 
that  dream  as  well  as  anybody." 

She  sighed. 

"  I  didn't  understand  you  once ;  but  I  do  now. 
You're  right  enough.  Joy  is  only  a  dream.  We  fool 
ourselves  to  think  that  happiness  is  a  real  state,  for 
'tis  a  fancied  thing  at  best." 

'  Don't  you  say  that.  Happiness  is  just  possible, 
but,  like  all  real  good  things,  terrible  hard  to  come  at. 
You  must  fight  for  it;  you  must  sweat  and  sting  and 
bleed  for  it.  You  must  be  pretty  strong  and  pretty 
tough  and  pretty  sure  of  yourself  to  get  it.  The 
weak  never  can  have  it.  Because  you  can't  oft  get 
happiness  without  hurting  somebody,  and  to  hurt  an- 
other spoils  their  happiness  in  the  very  bud.  List  to 
me,  Lizzie.  What  I'm  telling  yon  now,  you  taught 
me.  Yes,  you  come  to  me  to  learn;  but  remember 
this :  'twas  you  showed  me  there  could  be  such  a  thing 
as  the  joy  of  life.  I  didn't  believe  in  it  till  I  met 
you.  Now  I  do;  and  I'll  rest  no  more  till  I've  won  it. 
You  can't  influence  Charlie,  but  you  can  influence  me. 
You  can't  make  anything  beautiful  and  fine  out  of 
putty,  but  you  can  out  of  stone.  And  it's  worth  your 
pains." 

She  knew  what  he  meant  and  she  often  thought  of 
it  now.  It  was  true  that  she  had  influenced  him. 
Her  only  joy  lay  in  the  knowledge.  Some  might  have 
held  it  a  dangerous  joy.  It  had  come  as  a  revelation 
at  first,  but  now  she  accepted  the  fact  as  her  sole 
anchor  to  self-respect  in  the  painful  turmoil  of  life. 
She  no  longer  felt  any  need  to  pour  such  ceaseless 
contempt  upon  her  failure  to  justify  existence,  while 
a  strong  man  thus  loved  her  and  bent  to  her.     She 


292  THE  BEACON 

had  made  Dunning  something  finer  than  he  was  before 
she  knew  him.  She  had  marked  her  influence  and  he 
frankly  admitted  it.  At  first  she  thought  he  was  pre- 
tending; but  now  she  knew  that  he  had  spoken  the 
truth.  There  was,  however,  reciprocity.  He  had 
tinged  her  hope  with  gloom  and  saddened  it  for  ever; 
he  had  corrected  her  estimates  and  values;  he  had 
chastened  her  sanguine  soul.  Sometimes  they  specu- 
lated on  the  force  of  the  exchange  and  he  declared 
that  he  was  the  richer,  and  she  the  poorer  by  it.  But 
she  denied  this. 

"  'Tis  a  painful  thing  to  find  myself  so  much  less 
powerful  than  I  thought,"  she  told  him  once ;  "  but 
'tis  better  I  should  know  it  and  not  go  on  in  ignor- 
ance." 

"  You're  powerful  enough,"  he  answered  then,  "  but 
power  wants  something  to  show  itself.  What's  the 
use  of  wielding  a  strong  arm  if  there's  nought  to  smite 
with  it  but  air?  A  straw's  so  good  for  air-beating 
as  a  flail." 

He  found  her  depressed  and  out  of  tune  now  and 
he  spoke  to  her  bluntly. 

"  There  was  a  fool  once,"  he  said, — "  God  knows 
who,  but  he  ought  to  have  been  crucified  for  it,  who 
told  a  lie  about  women;  and  it's  made  thousands  of 
the  silly  things  more  miserable  than  any  other  man- 
made  lie  about  'em.  They've  believed  it  against  the 
cry  of  their  own  hearts  and  thought  that  they've 
done  something  contrary  to  nature  and  outraged  their 
womanhood.  The  tears  that  have  flowed  over  that 
lie!     D'you  know  what  it  is?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  'Tis  this :  that  a  woman  can  love  but  once.  The 
weakness  of  it!  The  cant  of  it!  Who  denies  a 
woman  can  love  deeper  than  a  man?  And  can't  she 
love  as  wide?  Love — love — 'tis  like  the  lightning. 
Be  a  place  safe  and  proof  for  evermore  because  it 
have  been  struck  once?     A  woman  built  to  love  will 


THE   BEACON  293 

love,  same  as  a  bird  built  to  sing  will  sing;  and  if  the 
man  that  makes  a  girl's  life  good  goes  out  of  it  from 
some  cause  or  another — if  his  body  dies  or  his  soul 
rots,  or  what  not — is  that  woman  to  love  no  more? 
Be  woman's  love  such  a  trickling  stream  that  one  man 
can  dry  it  all  up?  He'll  dam  it  for  himself,  and  'twill 
rise  so  high  as  his  heart  and  maybe  higher;  but  if  the 
dam  breaks  and  so  much  love  runs  to  waste,  ban't 
the  fount  still  there,  and  can't  another  man  stay  the 
waste  and  collect  the  stream  again?  Well  I  know  it 
may  be  done — and  so  do  you.  A  woman  that  stops 
loving  a  man  for  one  cause  or  another  be  like  a  widow. 
For  her  the  man's  dead.  But  can  death  freeze  love 
beyond  the  power  of  life  to  thaw?  Charlie's  dead, 
and  well  you  know  he's  dead.  Get  away  from  him 
and  let  him  come  to  life  in  a  gentler  atmosphere  than 
you  cast  around  him.  Let  them  stick  to  the  valley 
air  as  can't  breath  the  east  wind  aloft.  There — I've 
said  enough.     I'm  dry." 

She  argued  against  him  and  held  for  a  single  heart. 
She  cited  certain  widows  and  deserted  women  who 
had  loved  no  more,  when  the  sun  set  upon  their  fever 
and  rose  again  to  find  them  whole.  He  marked  an 
uncertainty  and  dubiety  foreign  to  her  nature  and  nut 
often  revealed  by  her  moods. 

"  Where  have  you  been  since  last  I  saw  you?"  he 
asked. 

"  To  church." 

"Where!" 

"  To  church,  I  tell  you." 

"Lord!  Where'll  you  go  next?  I  thought  you 
ha<l  made  Charlie  understand  you  was  done  with  that 
once  for  all." 

"So  I  did;  but  he  begged  and  I  went." 

"  Did  it  pay  for  the  trouble?  I  warrant  not — only 
made  more.  You  but  whet  your  conscience  there,  and 
what's  the  use  of  that  when  you  know  what  conscience 
means  and  what  it  came  out  of?     'Tis  no  more  than 


294  THE  BEACON 

what  you  learned,  at  your  mother's  knee.  It  only 
teaches  you  Christians  that  you  oughtn't  to  be  men 
and  women,  but  worms.  It  only  blinds  you  to  your 
fate;  but  it  can't  alter  it.  It  can't  lift  you  above  that. 
Take  Charlie — will  he  ever  do  more  than  creep? 
What's  the  good  of  his  conscience  to  him?  It  hurts 
and  torments  him — it  can't  change  him.  He  knows 
that  he  ought  to  be  stronger  and  surer  and  make  the 
world  bend  a  bit;  but  he  can't — he  can't.  And  you 
know  he  can't.  He  can't  rise  above  himself  and  he 
can't  sink  below  himself  either." 

"  How  do  we  know  what  is  himself?  How  do  we 
know  the  highest  in  a  man  or  woman's  power  to 
reach?     Don't  people  surprise  us  every  day?': 

"  Yes — and  the  surprise  is  only  because  we  were 
ignorant  of  them.  Ask  yourself  how  high  Charlie 
can  go,  and  don't  fool  yourself  to  think  you  don't 
know.  You  do  know.  You  know  you're  too  strong 
meat  for  him.  You  know  a  baby  can't  drink  wine. 
You're  poisoning  him — d'you  ever  think  of  that? 
And  if  you  can't  help  the  poor  soul,  why  hinder? 
And  if  you  can't  lift,  why  fling  down?  You're  mak- 
ing him  sick  and  ill  and  out  of  all  hope.  I  know,  be- 
cause I  spoke  with  him  awhile  ago  and  found  him 
feebler  than  usual.  Leave  him,  for  his  own  good,  and 
come  to  me  for  mine.  That's  what  you  ought  to  do, 
if  you're  a  sane  woman,  and  a  clean-minded  woman, 
and  have  learned  anything  of  the  truth  from  this  hill 
we're  sitting  on.  Justify  your  life  afore  'tis  gone. 
Life's  damnably  short  remember." 

She  looked  before  her  where  sunshine  soaked  the 
Moor.  His  proposition  did  not  startle  her,  for  she 
had  heard  it  before. 

"  'Tis  your  will  and  longing  and  ruling  passion  to 
uplift  and  help  somebody,"  he  continued.  '  Then 
come  where  you  can  do  it.  You  be  no  sort  of  good  to 
him;  but  to  me — countless  good — untold  good — " 

Still  she  was  silent  and  he  adopted  a  minatory  tone. 


THE  BEACON  295 

"  For  God's  sake  don't  mess  and  muddle  and  tinker 
with  your  short  days;  don't  think  you  can  do  for 
others  what  you  can't  do  for  yourself.  Trying  to 
make  loaves  afore  you  can  make  bread — that's  what 
you  are — trying  to  get  a  man  in  hand  afore  you've 
got  yourself  in  hand.  Yes, — you  know  I'm  telling 
true.  You  know  what  a  storm's  beating  through 
your  brain  and  heart  about  it.  Oh,  Lizzie,  you're  so 
young  yet — such  a  young,  beautiful  thing  to  be  trying 
to  lead  others.  And  here's  one  weathered  by  many 
storms — here's  a  haven  for  'e!  Help  me!  And 
haven't  you  already?  Haven't  you  tamed  me  and 
made  me  bigger-hearted?  Right  well  you  know  you 
have.  And  failure — one  failure — what's  that?  Who 
be  there  who  hasn't  failed  oftener  than  once?  Cut  a 
loss — that's  what  you've  got  to  do — and  we've  all  got 
to  do  it  again  and  again — in  business  and  in  life.  Cut 
a  loss  and  leave  the  man  for  his  own  good  and  begin 
again.  You'll  sing  in  that  cage  no  more.  Begin 
again  at  Clannaboro',  and  find  self-respect  and  self- 
control  along  with  me,  that  loves  you  better  far  than 
anything  in  the  wide  world.  Don't  you  stop  with 
Charlie  if  you  want  him  to  be  a  happy  man." 

He  harped  on  this  last  argument,  feeling  it  to  be  his 
strongest;  and  the  woman  was  weakened  a  great  deal 
by  it. 

She  declared  presently  that  she  was  the  first  thought 
in  Trevail's  mind;  but  Dunning  would  not  grant  as 
much. 

"  He  tells  you  so  and  he  thinks  so  belike,  for  'tis  a 
quality  of  weak  men  to  believe  what  they  say,  even 
while  their  head  gives  'em  the  lie.  His  heart  makes 
him  think  so,  but  when  it  comes  to  the  pinch,  how 
does  it  go?  He  can't  put  you  first,  poor  devil,  no 
more  than  a  sick  man  longing  for  ease  can  put  his 
pain  first  and  count  it  a  good  thing.  You're  his  pain, 
and  though  he  may  know  you  mean  his  good,  his  real 
self  screams  out  to  be  left  alone.     And  it  always  will; 


296  THE  BEACON 

and  if  you  conquer  and  kill  his  real  self,  then  what 
have  you  done?  Made  a  fine  man?  Not  you. 
You've  knocked  the  poor  little  chance  of  happiness 
out  of  a  weak  one.  No  more  than  that.  'Tis  just 
trash  for  him  to  say  he  loves  you  better  than  his  own 
ease  and  prospects  and  future  laziness — to  be  spent 
battening  on  Mortimore's  money.  How  can  a  man 
love  a  woman  better  than  his  own  highest  ambitions 
and  highest  hope  of  good?  He  can't  do  it,  and  if  you 
say  to  him  that  he  must  choose  between  Mortimore 
and  you,  which  will  he  choose?  You  know.  Don't 
torture  him  more  than  you're  bound  to.  Let  him 
down  light.  Break  the  heart  of  the  job  merciful  at 
one  stroke — don't  butcher  him  by  inches  and  let  him 
bleed  to  death." 

"  I  love  him,  Reynold." 

"Should  I  preach  sense  to  you  if  you  didn't?  If 
you  didn't,  you'd  bide  with  him  and  let  him  go  his 
way  while  you  went  yours;  you'd  share  his  cash  and 
his  prosperity  and  luck  and  everything  but  his  life. 
If  you  didn't  love  him,  you  could  do  all  that  without  a 
twinge.  'Tis  just  because  you  do  love  him  that  I'm 
at  you  to  leave  him  and  come  to  me.  You  oughtn't 
to  love  him.  'Tis  wasting  good,  precious  stuff  to  love 
him — spoiling  it  for  nothing.  Jump  in  a  dangerous 
river  if  the  man  drowning  there  be  worth  saving;  but 
don't  fling  yourself  in  and  risk  your  own  life  for  rub- 
bish. Not  that  Charlie's  drowning.  He  can  swim 
very  well.  'Tis  me  that  be  drowning.  Come  and 
save  me,  Lizzie.  Oh,  for  the  love  of  light,  come  and 
do  that!" 

She  was  very  silent,  but  he  felt  that  he  had  gained 
ground.  She  marvelled  at  his  speeches  and  perceived 
how  much  she  had  changed  him.  His  old  love-mak- 
ing was  frigid  compared  with  the  prayers  he  poured 
out  to  her  now.  He  appealed  to  her  mightily  since  he 
had  become  humble.     But  she  knew  that  he  was  un- 


THE  BEACON  297 

changed  to  everybody  but  herself.  He  had  done  a 
great  deed  for  her  also.  He  had  opened  her  eyes  in 
many  directions,  destroyed  many  illusions  and  hard- 
ened and  clarified  her  thinking.  She  found  him  the 
most  satisfying  element  of  life  and  she  did  not  pre- 
tend to  deny  it. 

They  moved  presently  and  passed  into  the  valley. 
Then  they  followed  Taw,  by  many  a  glittering  apron 
and  singing  fall,  downward  beneath  the  hills  and  the 
woods.  September's  robe  had  brushed  the  beeches 
now  and  dimmed  them.  As  yet  no  flash  of  autumn 
fire  broke  over  the  forest  at  Cosdon's  feet,  but  a  dull, 
sere  note  was  upon  the  trees  and  the  setting  sunshine 
found  it  and  seemed  to  prophesy  the  more  permanent 
light  of  the  fall  to  come.  The  woods  were  aglint  and 
aglow.  The  light  laid  little  rosy  touches  on  each 
spray  and  bough;  it  brought  out  the  finials  of  the 
pine  and  feathered  the  horizontal  arms  of  the  birch 
with  delicate  fire.  Where  open  spaces  broke  these 
hanging  woods,  the  light  burnt  tenderly  on  dying 
fern,  touched  the  granite  ridges  of  the  hills  where  they 
broke  and  swept  upward,  and  lighted  with  a  red  flame 
the  foliage  of  sister  birches  twined  together  upon  a 
bluff. 

The  man  and  woman  sat  again  beside  the  river  and 
watched  light  die.  It  seemed,  as  the  day  faded,  that 
the  water  sang  louder  and  louder. 

For  a  long  time  no  more  speech  passed  between 
them.     Then  he  uttered  another  warning  suddenly. 

"And  remember  this.  Your  will  to  be  doing  for 
him  is  broken  again  and  again — broken  against  his 
cast-iron  ambition  to  be  small.  Broken — do  you 
know  what  that  means?  He's  the  strong  one — not 
you.  Your  strength  be  nothing  against  his  weakness. 
He's  smothering  all  the  heart  out  of  you — he's  suck- 
ing up  all  your  fine  fire  and  not  giving  back  one  spark. 
And  you'll  wither  presently;  you'll  get  old  afore  your 


298  THE  BEACON 

time;  you'll  cry  out  that  'tis  all  a  blighted,  heartless, 
hopeless  failure,  and  wring  your  hands  for  sorrow 
that  you  was  ever  born." 

They  sat  on  until  light  thickened  and  the  earth 
took  on  the  vague  vesture  of  the  crepuscule.  Then 
they  rose  and  went  down,  and  he  left  her  without 
farewell  and  she  turned  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BETWEEN  the  villages  of  South  Tawton  and  Zeal 
there  stands  the  stump  of  an  old  wayside  cross 
where  three  roads  meet.  Beside  it  is  a  barn,  and  here, 
by  night,  a  man  tramped  restlessly  up  and  down,  like  a 
tiger  caged,  and  kept  tryst  with  fierce  impatience. 
The  hunter's  moon  was  in  the  sky  and  once  or  twice 
by  the  light  of  it  the  man  stood  still  and  scanned  cer- 
tain announcements  in  large  letters  that  were  pasted  in 
bills  on  the  barn  door.  But  he  knew  them  by  heart 
and  had  already  attended  more  than  one  of  the  sales 
which  they  advertised.  He  marked  a  notice  a  month 
old  and  tore  it  down.  The  recollection  awakened  by 
it  caused  him  fleeting  satisfaction,  for  at  that  bank- 
rupt sale  of  stock  he  had  prospered. 

Abraham  Mortimore  was  waiting  for  his  nephew, 
and  the  latter  would  meet  him  here  presently  with 
news  from  Oxenham  House.  The  quarry  tenders 
had  been  in  a  fortnight  and  information  respecting 
them  was  promised  for  this  day. 

Mortimore's  impatience  increased  and  he  strode  up 
and  down  with  shorter  and  shorter  turns.  He  never 
wore  a  hat  and  his  stiff,  cropped  hair  bristled  in  the 
silver  light. 

Then  came  the  quick  step  of  Trevail. 

"  As  you  feared !  "  he  shouted  while  yet  forty  yards 
away.     "  Dunning's  got  it !  " 

"What's  the  tender?" 

"  They  wouldn't  tell  me.  I  pressed  to  know.  I 
only  saw  the  bailiff.  You  was  second,  but  a  good  bit 
higher  than  Dunning." 

Mortimore   said   nothing    for   some    moments    and 

then  he  burst  into  a  storm  of  rage.     He  walked  up 

299 


300  THE  BEACON 

and  down  irregularly  panting  and  snorting.  He  lost 
self-control  and  cursed.  For  some  time  nothing  but 
a  lunatic  frenzy  held  him  and  he  howled  and  fought 
the  air  like  a  madman.  He  beat  the  hedge  and  the 
ground  with  his  stick;  then,  coming  beside  the  cross, 
he  struck  it  savagely  and  the  stout  staff  he  carried 
broke  in  half.  He  stamped  and  cast  the  handle  from 
him. 

Trevail  walked  up  and  down  beside  him,  but  made 
no  attempt  for  some  time  to  arrest  his  fury.  He 
believed  it  would  be  better  for  the  old  man  to  wear 
himself  out;  but  for  half  an  hour  his  pent-up  wrath 
blazed  furiously;  then,  of  a  sudden,  his  temper  began 
to  sink.  He  was  physically  exhausted  and  his  strides 
grew  slower  and  his  outburst  more  intermittent.  He 
sat  down  presently  on  the  cross  stump  and  squatted 
there  panting  up  at  the  moon. 

Then  Trevail  began  his  soothing  task  and  presently 
persuaded  his  uncle  to  rise  and  turn  to  the  village. 

"  This  don't  end  here,"  said  Mortimore  at  last. 
"  I'm  not  to  be  flung  aside  like  a  broken  pot.  No 
man  shall  have  the  quarry  as  long  as  I  want  it,  and  if 
'tis  denied  to  me,  then  I'll  deny  it  to  all  others.  Not 
a  penny — not  a  penny  shall  any  creature  earn  there 
when  I  go  out.  I'll  blow  all  to  hell,  and  what  I  can't 
fire,  I'll  drown.  I  know  the  secrets  of  the  place  I  tell 
you !  I'll  ope  the  well-springs,  I'll  plague  this  devil 
who  has  stole  it  from  me  and  break  his  heart  and  ruin 
him." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that.  He'll  very  like  ruin  him- 
self without  any  help  from  you.  Let  him  go — he 
can't  cut  you  down  and  make  a  profit.  He'll  have 
had  enough  of  it  in  a  year  and  cry  out  to  you  to  take 
the  lease  off  his  shoulders." 

"  Ruin — ruin,"  cried  the  other.  "  Ruin  shall  be 
his  portion,  and  all  the  sleepless,  watchful  strength  in 
me,  all  the  power  to  grind  and  throw  down  and  crush 
in  me — all — all    I'll   pour   out   against   him.     I'm  so 


THE  BEACON  301 

cold  and  steadfast  as  a  frog  now.  I've  gone  over  the 
ground  a  thousand  times  afore  to-day.  I'm  ready  for 
him.  Better  that  he  should  cut  his  own  throat  and 
get  out  of  it,  than  go  on  against  me  now.  I'll  tear 
him  to  pieces  slowly;  I'll  batter  and  bruise  him  and 
break  his  heart;  I'll  make  him  call  on  the  hills  to  cover 
him.  And  soon — soon — I  can't  wait  for  it.  I'll  be- 
gin with  to-morrow's  light." 

"  Much  may  happen  before  next  autumn  remember. 
You've  got  the  quarry  till  next  Michaelmas — a  year 
you  may  say." 

"  And  I'll  pick  the  eyes  out  of  it  long  afore  that, 
and  what  I  can't  save,  I'll  spoil.  He  shall  have 
nought  for  his  pains — nought  but  a  long  year's  work 
and  no  gain.     I'll — I'll — " 

He  broke  off  and  Trevail  argued  as  best  he  could 
to  lessen  the  force  of  the  blow. 

"  You'll  have  all  the  more  time  for  other  things. 
The  quarry  takes  up  too  much  of  your  thought,  come 
to  think  of  it,  and  if  you  put  all  the  brain  and  trouble 
you've  poured  out  there  into  cattle,  or  houses,  or  what 
not,  I'm  positive  certain  you'd  double  your  money. 
Me  and  Lizzie  was  talking  not  a  week  agone  touch- 
ing that,  and  she  held  out  for  it  with  your  gifts  you 
might  easily  get  more  money  for  less  work  than  you 
do  for  your  lime  and  stone." 

"  Because  she  knows  what  that  anointed  scamp 
knows.  Han't  they  thick  as  thieves?  Don't  she 
(mow  all  about  him?  Don't  she  take  all  your  secrets 
and  mine  to  him?  Didn't  I  see  'em  a  week  agone 
walking  along  so  close  together  as  husband  and  wife, 
when  they  thought  none  was  in  sight?  And  me 
behind  a  hedge,  and  one  bullet  would  have  killed  the 
pair  of  'cm — <me  charge  of  gunpowder  would  have 
sent  'cm  to  the  devil  together.  She's  my  enemy — 
always — always.  Can't  I  read  men  and  women? 
The  proof  of  the  pudding  is  in  the  eating.  If  she'd 
been    our    side    in    this — why.    with    her    cleverness 


302  THE  BEACON 

she'd  have  got  his  secret  as  easy  as  Delilah  got  the 
strong  man's.  She'd  have  found  out  what  he  knows 
— she'd  have  brought  his  trap  to  us  and  we'd  have 
set  it  again  with  a  new  bait  and  catched  him  in  it. 
But  all's  one  now.  The  cat  be  on  his  side,  not  ours, 
and  she  shall  go  down  with  him,  mark  me ;  and  if  you 
cleave  to  her  worthless  carcase,  you  shall  go  down 
too." 

'  You'll  drive  me  mad,"  cried  the  younger.  "  How 
can  you  insult  a  man's  wife  to  his  face  so  wickedly? 
You  know  what  I  feel  for  you;  you  know  how  I've 
worked  to  stave  this  off;  and  now  you  say — you  say 
— and,  coming  from  any  but  you,  I'd  not  stand  it." 

"Could  she  have  got  his  secret  or  couldn't  she? 
Tell  me  that." 

"  I'll  swear  she  never  asked  him  for  it." 

"  Bah !  Be  you  so  cold  ?  Don't  you  know  what 
you  felt  when  you  got  the  woman?  Can't  you  see 
what  that  damned  man  feels  now  he  knows  the  crea- 
ture's a  failure  as  a  wife  and  may  be  in  his  claws  yet? 
He  wants  her  far  more  than  he  wants  the  quarry,  and 
if  it  had  been  her  or  the  quarry,  he'd  have  left  the 
quarry  alone.  'Twas  one  of  them  cases  where  a 
female  may  get  on  the  blind  side  of  a  strong  man  and 
make  him  harmless.  She  could  have  twisted  him 
round  her  finger  if — " 

"  I'll  not  hear  this.  You're  far  ways  off  your  true 
self  to  talk  to  me  so.     What  have  I  done  to  be — ?  ' 

"  Get  gone !  "  said  the  miser.  "  You're  a  whining 
whelp  at  best  and  the  little  use  you  ever  was  be  lost 
now  that — "  he  broke  off.  "  No,"  he  continued.  "  I 
won't  say  that.  I'll  be  fair  to  you.  You're  all  right. 
You  wouldn't  have  married  that  bit  of  foreign  rag  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  me.  I  don't  quarrel  with  you. 
We  hunt  together,  but  we've  lost  our  game  too  often 
since  you  took  that  vixen  into  partnership.  She's 
got  to  go;  and  if  I  was  you  I'd  sweep  her  to  the 
devil,  her  master,  and  not  let  my  honour  hang  on  a 


THE  BEACON  303 

hair  of  her  head,  same  as  it  do  now.  She  could  have 
helped  you  and  didn't;  she  could  have  give  me  my 
quarry  and  didn't — ban't  that  enough?  She's  a 
traitor  by  your  own  hearth — a  liar  and  a  whore. 
She'll  be  fathering  another  man's  brats  on  you  afore 
you  can  look  round.  Be  rid  of  her  while  there's  time. 
Bid  her  begone,  and  if  she  won't  go,  then  hurl  her 
out.  Give  the  woman  her  proper  deserts.  Haven't 
she  robbed  your  pocket  and  stood  between  you  and 
what  would  have  been  yours?  And  thinks  to  batten 
on  my  money  some  day  no  doubt." 

Mortimore  poured  his  venom  on  Trevail's  wife 
and  orderd  the  other  to  stop  and  listen.  To  some 
extent,  in  spite  of  his  hyperbolic  language  and  primi- 
tive coarseness,  he  influenced  Trevail,  because  in  the 
main  cause  at  difference  he  was  with  his  uncle.  He 
did  not  now  insist  that  Lizzie  should  have  played  the 
spy  and  won  the  pregnant  secret ;  but  he  had  resented 
her  friendship  with  Dunning  and  had  told  her  more 
than  once  that  she  was  wrong  to  persist  in  it.  She 
continued  to  do  so,  however;  and  when  she  had  assured 
her  husband  that  the  quarry  did  not  form  the  matter 
of  their  conversation,  he  took  leave  to  doubt  it  and 
told  her  so. 

Now  Mortimore  went  his  way  homeward  and  re- 
fused to  let  Trevail  enter  his  house  with  him. 

1  You  begone,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  to  think  to- 
night. You  can  let  a  man  wrong  you  under  your  nose 
and  do  nought  but  ax  God  to  forgive  everybody 
when  you  go  to  church.  God  don't  forgive  His 
enemies  and  more  won't  I.  I'm  different.  There's 
work  ahead  of  me,  and  if  that  woman  gets  in  the  way, 
as  I  hope  she  will,  then  she'll  go  down  with  him. 
Greedy  as  the  grave  I  be  for  the  pair  of  'em !  They 
be  more  one  than  you  and  she  be  one.  Mind  that 
and  wait  and  see  how  'twill  go.  I  shan't  hit  for  the 
minute;  but  when  I  do,  'twill  be  but  once.  No  sec- 
ond blow  will  I  give,  because  no  second  blow  will  be 


304  THE  BEACON 

wanted.  I'll  keep  to  myself  for  a  week  now  and  see 
how  it  looks  then.  And  the  plagues  of  Egypt  will  be 
a  scratched  ringer  to  what  I  plan  and  what  I  carry  out 
against  that  fleering,  jeering  wretch." 

He  banged  his  door  in  Trevail's  face  and  the 
younger  man  went  slowly  home.  He  had  listened 
long  and  said  but  little;  but  now  it  was  his  turn  to 
talk  and  he  entered  upon  a  fierce  tirade  against  his 
wife.  He  blamed  her  for  no  actual  sin  of  commis- 
sion; but  he  reported  the  things  that  Abraham  Morti- 
more  had  said  and  he  censured  her  vigorously  that  it 
should  have  become  possible  even  for  such  a  spirit  as 
his  uncle  to  say  such  things.  She  attended  to  his 
words  patiently,  made  few  efforts  to  excuse  or  explain 
herself  and  angered  him  the  more  by  her  apathy  be- 
fore the  attack.  She  was  only  concerned  to  hear  who 
had  won  the  tender. 

"'Tis  the  'overhang,'"  she  said.  "You'll  find 
that  Reynold  have  thought  out  a  plan  to  clear  it  off 
far,  far  cheaper  than  your  uncle  or  anybody  else 
knows  how." 

"  Yes;  and  if  you'd  been  a  woman  worth  your  salt 
and  true  to  us,  Lizzie,  you'd  have — " 

"  Don't  tell  me  that  again,"  she  interrupted.  "  If 
you  knew  how  it  stabbed  me — to  think  that  you  can 
even  feel  such  a  thing.  It's  dreadful  enough  in  your 
uncle,  but  you — is  that  all  your  church-going  does  for 
you,  Charlie  ?  " 

"  You  don't  understand,  because  you  won't.  I 
never  stood  in  your  light.  I  never  much  minded  your 
going  to  see  Dunning  in  the  past,  though  strongly 
I've  felt  it  wasn't  no  great  compliment  to  me.  But 
since  you  did  choose  to  make  him  a  friend,  then  surely 
to  God  you  might  have  used  his  friendship  to  help 
those  who  are  more  to  you  than  friends?  At  least  I 
suppose  so.  Here  was  a  case,  if  ever  case  was,  where 
you  might  have  been  useful  to  us.  What  does  Dun- 
ning care  for  the  quarry — or  anything  in  particular? 


i 


THE  BEACON  305 

If  you'd  wanted  to  do  it  and  been  clever,  as  you  easily 
might  have  been,  you  could  have  choked  him  off  the 
quarry  altogether,  as  easily  as  putting  your  hand  in 
your  pocket.     And  you  know  it  too." 

"  Even  that's  a  base  thing  to  say.  But  you  put  it 
a  bit  higher  than  what  your  uncle  does.  You  thought 
of  that,  not  he.  I'm  sorry — I'm  sorry  about  it  all. 
I  don't  want  to  preach,  or  anything  like  that,  but 
friendship  isn't  a  thing  to  use  for  your  own  ends 
surely.  You  oughtn't  to  try  to  draw  me  in.  You 
can  forbid  my  seeing  him  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  "  he  burst  out.  "  Worse  and  worse 
it  gets — nothing  but  sighs  and  wranglings  and  misery. 
What's  the  good  of  it,  or  the  sense  of  it?  I'm  sick 
and  weary  of  telling  you  that — there — still  to  accuse 
me  of  being  under  my  uncle's  influence  when  I  work 
night  and  day  to  lift  him  up  and  enlarge  his  ideas! 
How  can  you  do  it  ?  " 

But  she  was  hard  to-night  and  said  so. 

"  I'm  hard  to-night.  I  can't  go  through  the  usual 
business  of  making  it  up,  and  kissing  and  fooling,  and 
thinking  'twill  never  happen  again,  and  knowing  it 
must  in  a  week.  I'm  not  well;  I'm  burning  out — 
and  so  are  you.  The  old,  happy  look  in  your  face  is 
gone — driven  away — stamped  out  by  me.  You're 
puzzled — stupid — like  a  dog  at  a  cross  roads.  You'll 
do  well  to  cut  a  loss — '  cut  a  loss  '  is  a  very  good  word 
for  it — 'twas  Reynold  Dunning's  to  me.  That's  how 
it  is.  You  take  your  liberty  and  do  what  you  please 
— and  so  will  I." 

He  grew  angry. 

"  It's  come  to  that — eh?  And  you  can  stand  there 
and  say  that !  You — that  promised  such  eternal 
love  as  never  a  woman  promised  a  man  before  in  this 
world  !  Take  my  liberty  and  give  you  yours — to  run 
to  that  godless,  hard-hearted  wretch.  Like  to  like 
'twill  be  then — stone  to  stone;  for  you've  no  more 
real  goodness  or  patience  in  you  than —     What  is  it — 

20 


30(7  THE  BEACON 

what  is  it  in  me  that  brings  out  nought  but  the  worst 
in  you?  How  have  I  changed?  I'm  not  a  feather  in 
a  gale  of  wind  for  any  fool's  breath  to  puff  this  way 
or  that.  I  don't  go  wasting  my  time,  God  knows 
where,  listening  to  other  women  and  then  coming  to 
you  with  their  tales.  I'd  like  to  know  how  you'd  face 
that!  I'll  choose  then,  since  it's  got  to  be  and  you've 
made  up  your  mind  to  drive  me  from  you.  I'll  go 
to  my  uncle,  and  throw  in  my  lot  with  him,  and  be- 
lieve him,  and  curse  the  day  when  ever  we  met — curse 
it  for  your  sake  more  than  mine." 

He  broke  off  and  waited  for  her  to  speak,  but  she 
was  silent.  Her  hard  mood  faded  quickly  enough 
before  his  fierce  speeches;  she  began  to  weep;  and 
then  followed  the  usual,  pitiful,  empty  business  of 
comfortable  words  and  regrets  from  him  and  assur- 
ances that  he  had  not  meant  what  he  said  and  so 
forth.  Both  felt  the  futility  and  the  unreality  of  the 
reconciliation;  both  at  heart  dimly  understood  the 
tragedy  under  the  farce.  But  they  pretended  other- 
wise, effected  a  complete  agreement  and  assured 
themselves,  until  long  after  midnight,  that  no  such 
dark  hour  should  ever  come  between  them  any  more. 
Neither  perceived  the  radical  changes  that  had  ren- 
dered such  collisions  possible;  neither  looked  back 
and  appreciated  the  crises  that  preceded  their  grow- 
ing divergence.  They  reiterated  the  fond  assurance 
that  they  were  heart  to  heart  again  and  both  believed 
it,  before,  weaned  in  mind  and  body,  they  fell  asleep 
together.  They  had  blunted  their  emotions  on  one 
another  so  often  that  the  business  began  to  grow 
mechanical;  and  it  was  the  more  cruel  for  that.  The 
very  fineness  of  their  quarrels  perished  and  they  were 
reduced  to  mean  wranglings  that  followed  an  inevita- 
ble path  through  unchanging  scenery  and  storm. 
Their  differences  ground  away  their  nervous  energy 
and  threatened  swiftly  to  spoil  their  lives. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

NOW  did  Elisabeth  and  her  husband  strive  hon- 
estly to  come  closer,  and  sometimes  it  seemed 
that  they  succeeded.  Then,  clouds  separated  them  and 
they  felt  that  barriers  insuperable  had  risen  between. 
To-day  he  yielded;  to-morrow  she  did;  but  upon  the 
reconciliation  and  glad  embrace,  like  a  mist  over  the 
Moor,  like  a  forgotten  sorrow  revived,  like  the 
stealthy,  steady  oncoming  of  disease,  the  disseverance 
set  in  again.  Trevail  gradually  perceived  that  things 
aforetime  spoken  in  heat  and  afterwards  laughed 
aside  as  ridiculous,  were  now  true.  They  had  become 
trite,  and  the  bitter  speeches  now  held  ridiculous  when 
reconciliation  began,  were  worse  than  the  worst 
thoughts  and  utterances  of  a  year  ago.  He  had 
reached  the  cross  roads  and  knew  that  he  must  choose 
his  way  or  be  driven  upon  it. 

There  came  a  dark  storm  and  he  left  her  and  went 
out  alone  to  the  high  ground.  The  Beacon  attracted 
him  of  late,  but  it  did  not  call  her.  He  had  noted 
that  for  many  weeks  she  had  not  sought  it.  Nor  had 
she  seen  anything  of  Dunning  or  Clannaboro'.  Her 
ways  took  her  to  the  valleys.  The  Beacon  was  never 
on  her  lips.  When  they  went  out  together,  she  did 
not  lift  her  eyes  to  it  mechanically  as  of  old. 

The  man  set  forth  on  this  day  to  face  life  as  he  had 
never  faced  it.  He  welcomed  the  discomfort  of  the 
time.  The  east  wind,  the  steep  wet  road  and  the 
cheerless  desolation  above  were  a  fit  theatre  for  his 
task.  He  climbed  until  the  last  roof  trees  of  Zeal  had 
vanished  from  beneath  and  he  stood  alone.  Cosdon 
had  not  yet  donned  her  brumal  coat,  but  the  waste 
rolled    in    lead-coloured    planes    sullenly,    and    round 

307 


308  THE  BEACON 

about  the  tors  thrust  black  and  ragged  from  the 
welter  of  driving  cloud.  The  air  was  cold  and  raw 
with  shed  rain.  The  fading  autumn  gorse  had  taken 
upon  itself  the  darkness  of  the  day  and  sank  sodden 
into  death.  There  was  no  light  on  earth,  save  where 
a  river  wound  beneath,  ashy  against  its  banks  of  dark- 
ness. The  secret  of  the  hour  was  a  stern,  uncomplain- 
ing and  silent  surrender  to  death.  A  carrion  crow 
flapped  and  croaked  before  Charles  Trevail  and  the 
wind  whimpered  and  stung  him  as  he  walked  forward. 
He  did  not  stop  at  Cosdon  but  breasted  it,  sank  down 
on  the  other  side  and  held  on,  until  he  came  to  Steep- 
erton's  crown,  high  lifted  above  the  mist-laden  plains 
of  Taw. 

Here  he  fought. 

Before  the  added  darkness  told  that  day  was  fad- 
ing, he  started  homewards  and  had  reached  the  famil- 
iar slopes  of  the  Beacon  once  again  ere  it  was  night. 
The  wind  had  backed  to  south-east  and  rain  fell 
heavily.  Below  him,  through  the  wet  air,  twinkled 
out  Zeal's  constellation  of  earth-born  stars,  and  be- 
yond them  he  knew  that  the  windows  of  North  Combe 
were  flinging  light  to  the  darkness.  From  the  hill  to 
the  valley  he  descended  and  brought  with  him  a 
final  determination.  He  had  made  his  choice  and 
hastened  to  declare  it.  There  was  much  to  be  done 
and  he  did  not  mean  to  sleep  until  he  had  done  it. 
He  hesitated  in  Zeal  and  even  stood  a  moment  at 
the  gate  of  his  uncle's  dwelling;  but  he  was  wet  and 
very  weary.  He  determined  to  go  home,  don  dry 
clothes,  eat  and  then  act.  He  returned,  therefore, 
fortified  himself  and  rested  until  it  was  nine  o'clock. 
He  was  kind  to  Elisabeth,  but  met  her  tearful  regrets 
at  the  morning  tribulation  with  few  words.  He  was 
at  peace;  but  a  sort  of  stoic  hardness  marked  him. 
He  imparted  no  information  respecting  his  day  and 
asked  for  none  concerning  hers.  Her  intuition  told 
her  that  something  had  happened,  but  she  did  not 


THE  BEACON  309 

speak  of  personal  concerns  until  after  they  had  supped. 
Then  she  came  to  him  and  sat  near  him  while  he 
smoked  and  looked  into  the  fire. 

Still  he  said  nothing,  though  she  waited  for  him  to 
do  so.  At  last  her  patience  failed  her  and  she  ad- 
dressed her  husband  in  a  weary  voice. 

"  This  can't  go  on,  Charlie,"  she  said. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  I've  found  that  out  at  last, 
my  dear.  And  it's  not  going  on.  It's  coming  to  an 
end." 

She  looked  a  question;  but  he  did  not  see  it  for  his 
eyes  were  still  on  the  fire. 

"  How  oft  have  I  told  you  that  your  happiness  is 
more  to  me  than  anything  on  God's  earth  ?  "  he  asked 
suddenly. 

"  Yes,  I  know  that.  You  can't  help  being  yourself 
any  more  than  I  can.     Nobody's  to  blame." 

"  Well,  I  should  be  to  blame  if  I  talked  more  and 
did  nought.  I've  tried  everything  but  one  thing, 
Lizzie,  and  now  I'll  try  that.  'Tis  not  much  use  say- 
ing I  love  you  if  I  leave  one  stone  unturned  to  show 
it.  There's  one  stone  unturned  and  I'll  turn  it  to- 
night." 

"  You've  done  everything  in  your  power." 

"  Very  near — not  quite." 

"  The  fault's  all  mine.' 

"  Not  that  neither.  I've  thought  to-day,  and  I've 
seen  a  thing  or  two.  I've  frozen  and  sweated  and 
toiled  and  panted  to-day.  I've  taken  a  lot  of  your 
favourite  physic  up  over — on  the  hill.  Life's  short 
and  'tis  no  good  ruining  your  own  and  another's  too. 
We  be  both  pretty  young  yet.  'Tis  a  pity  to  grow 
old  so  much  quicker  than  we  need." 

He  rose  and  went  into  the  scullery  for  his  boots. 
Then  he  came  back  to  the  kitchen  and  began  leisurely 
to  put  them  on  again. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked.  "Surely 
you've  been  out  enough  to-day  ?  " 


310  THE  BEACON 

"  I'm  going  to  my  uncle." 

She  was  silent.  His  voice  had  something  in  it 
that  struck  unfamiliar  upon  her  ear  and  sense.  It 
rang  firm  and  definite.  There  was  almost  a  knell  in 
it.  She  mourned  and  yet  rejoiced.  Was  he  on  the 
point  of  decision?  Had  Cosdon  found  even  some 
splinter  of  iron  in  him? 

"  For  your  own  happiness  you've  decided  then," 
she  answered. 

"  How  you  read  me !  Yes,  Lizzie,  for  my  happi- 
ness— and  yours  I  hope." 

"  You  won't  change  again  ?  " 

"  You  do  well  to  be  doubtful,"  he  said  bitterly. 
"  A  poor,  shifty,  feeble  thing  am  I — between  him  and 
you.     But  even  I  can — " 

He  broke  off  and  sought  his  hat. 

She  believed  that  he  was  gone  indeed,  and  she  told 
herself  that  she  was  very  thankful  he  was  gone. 
Then  her  heart  sank  and  the  world  shook. 

"  It  will  be  better  for  both  of  us,"  she  declared  in 
a  feeble  voice. 

"  I  hope  so.  Get  me  my  coat,  there's  a  dear — the 
best  one.     T'other's  wet." 

She  went  upstairs  and  fetched  him  a  coat.  He 
was  looking  out  of  the  window  when  she  returned. 

"  'Tis  fine  and  starry  now,"  he  said.  "  I  shan't  be 
very  long." 

She  helped  him  into  his  coat  but  did  not  speak. 
His  face  was  set  and  firm. 

He  thanked  her  and  went  to  the  door;  then  he 
turned  and  saw  that  she  had  sunk  down  by  the  table 
with  her  face  hidden.  He  came  back  and  put  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"  Best  you  go  to  bed  and  don't  worry  either  on 
your  own  account  or  for  me,"  he  said  kindly. 

"  Don't  go,  Charlie." 

"  Yes,  I  must  go." 

He   went  out   and   of   intention  left   her   in  some 


THE  BEACON  311 

doubt  of  his  determinations.  His  magnanimity  and 
love  had  done  mighty  things  with  him  on  this  day; 
but  the  small  cruelty  of  leaving  her  thus  uncertain 
for  a  time  he  deliberately  perpetrated.  His  motive 
was  mixed.  He  told  himself  that  the  pending  joy 
would  be  by  so  much  the  greater  when  he  returned 
presently  with  his  news;  but  he  did  not  tell  himself 
(because  he  knew  without  telling)  that  a  shadow  of 
malice  lurked  in  the  act.  He  had  suffered  enor- 
mously that  day.  He  had  suffered  in  many  directions 
and  resented  with  exceeding  bitterness  the  familiar 
fact  that  a  man  cannot  have  his  cake  and  eat  it  too. 
He  had  kicked  against  the  pricks;  and  though  he  was 
now  tamed  and  affirmed  to  do  what  he  must  do  in  or- 
der to  keep  what  he  valued  most  in  the  world,  yet  his 
heels  were  raw.  In  the  arcanum  of  his  heart  he  still 
felt  aggrieved  that  such  unreasoning  and  unreason- 
able demands  should  have  been  made  against  his  peace. 
It  did  not  hurt  him  for  the  moment  to  know  that  Liz- 
zie was  in  pain  and  doubt.  Her  doubt  and  pain  were 
as  nothing  to  what  his  had  been,  and  they  would  not 
endure  so  long. 

He  left  her  now  without  more  words  and  sup- 
posed that  her  state  was  one  of  suspense.  He  had, 
however,  created  a  very  different  impression  and  when 
he  was  gone,  his  wife's  mind  faced  a  certainty. 

Her  day  had  been  one  of  much  tribulation  also. 
She  had  never  wandered  further  from  her  husband  in 
heart ;  she  had  never  more  thoroughly  perceived  the 
folly  and  cruelty  of  remaining  with  him.  And  now 
she  gathered  from  his  words  that  he  had  arrived  at 
the  same  conclusion.  All  her  toil  for  him  had  ended 
in  this.  He  was  lower  than  when  she  started  to  lift 
him.  He  would  always  be  kind  and  just  and  gener- 
ous ;  but  it  was  to  Abraham  Mortimore  that  his  small 
soul  clung.  They  would  plan  her  future  together 
now ;  they  would  thrust  her  out  of  their  lives  with  a 
portion  of  money,  and  then  they  would  breathe  again. 


312  THE  BEACON 

She  had  herself  thought  upon  going  a  thousand  times; 
and  now  she  found  that,  after  all,  her  husband  was 
about  to  be  strong  and  perhaps  hasten  her  on  the  road 
she  herself  had  designed  to  take. 

She  grew  hysterical,  then  battled  with  her  soul. 
Her  pride  came  to  her  aid;  but  it  was  transformed 
and  vitiated  by  the  agitated  state  of  her  brain. 
Terrific  emotion  stifled  her  and  hustled  her  into 
action.  Bitterly  she  resented  any  sort  of  initiative 
being  taken  against  her.  She  flushed  hot ;  she  raged 
and  clenched  her  fingers  together ;  she  could  have  torn 
her  hair  when  she  pictured  Trevail  returning  with 
plans  matured  and  propositions  for  her  acceptance. 
They  would  talk  her  over — the  man  and  the  brute — 
and  they  would  decide  what  she  should  be  directed  to 
do,  where  directed  to  live,  how  supported.  She  raged 
for  a  little;  then  she  exercised  self-control  and  took 
her  way. 

In  half  an  hour  from  the  time  that  her  husband 
set  out,  Elisabeth  had  also  gone  into  the  night.  Be- 
hind her  she  left  a  letter  for  him  and,  in  it,  she  en- 
closed her  wedding-ring. 

Light-headed  she  wandered  under  a  sky  blown 
clear  by  the  night  wind.  She  avoided  the  road  on 
which  Charles  must  return  home  and  presently 
climbed  a  little  way  up  Cosdon.  Then  she  crept 
down  again  faint  and  sick.  Storms  raged  through 
and  through  her.  At  the  wicket  of  Fanny  Cann's 
cottage  she  hesitated.  But  she  passed  it  and  went 
down  to  the  Throwleigh  road  and  set  her  face  for 
Clannaboro.'  Her  mind  was  empty,  listless  and  in- 
different to  every  call  of  life  or  duty.  Her  solitary 
interest  was  to  find  whether  she  had  strength  left  to 
get  to  Dunning  or  must  sink  beside  the  way. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ELISABETH  reached  Clannaboro'  at  last  and  did 
not  stay  at  the  door  but  entered,  as  one  who  pos- 
sessed the  right.  She  had  not  a  thought  of  Noah  Val- 
lance  or  his  wife  and  felt  no  surprise  to  find  Dunning 
alone,  though  by  an  accident  his  housekeeper  and  head 
man  were  both  away. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  fire  smoking,  and  save  for 
the  firelight  the  room  was  in  darkness.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  did  not  recognise  her,  then  her  voice  brought 
him  to  his  feet. 

"  Hullo — you !  This  is  a  sporting  hour  to  turn  up ! 
What  the  deuce  have  you  come  for  now  ? ,: 

"  To  stop,"  she  said. 

"  D'you  mean  it?  " 

She  collapsed  into  the  chair  that  he  had  risen  from 
and  sat  there  shivering. 

"  There's  a  bitter  cold  come  over  me,"  she  said. 

He  lighted  a  candle  and  carried  it  and  looked  at 
her.  He  preserved  an  astounding  coolness.  Then 
she  burst  out  into  speech  and  he  perceived  that  she 
was  unhinged  and  distracted. 

"  Never,  never  again,  so  help  me  God,  will  I  thrust 
myself  on  any  man's  will  or  seek  to  help  or  lift!  'Tis 
all  over.  I'll  go  on  my  own  way  no  more ;  I'll  go 
yours;  and  when  you're  weary  of  me,  I'll  drown  my- 
self." 

For  answer  he  put  his  arms  around  her. 

"  Your  way  be  mine,"  he  said.  "  and  mine  be  yours 
— you  know  that.  But  do  you  know  yourself?  Do 
you  know  exactly  what  you're  doing?  I  don't  want 
to  take  you  unawares — unstrung — smarting  from  the 
folly  of  that  fool.     But  once  you  conic,  you  stop,  and 

3U 


314  THE  BEACON 

the  devil  and  his  angels  won't  get  you  away  from 
me  again." 

He  did  not  wait  to  hear  her  answer.  He  went  to  a 
cupboard  and  brought  out  a  bottle.  Then  he  sought 
elsewhere  and  found  a  green  wine-glass.  He  half- 
filled  the  wine-glass  with  spirits  and  added  water. 

"  Drink,"  he  said.  "  Swig  it  off.  I  know  you're 
coming  to  me ;  and  I've  known  it  for  many  a  long  day. 
But  you  shan't  do  anything  in  a  moment  of  trouble, 
while  your  mind  is  weak  and  worn.  You  shan't  do 
anything  that  you'll  ever  regret  after.  Drink,  you 
lovely  thing!  I  wish  you  could  drink  away  all  mem- 
ory of  the  past  and  come  to  me  with  your  mind  so 
empty  as  a  baby's.  'Tis  my  turn  now — 'tis  my  turn 
to  pay  back  a  little  of  what  I've  had  from  you. 
You've  made  me — d'you  know  that,  you  wet-eyed, 
wild  creature?  You've  changed  my  life  into  a  finer 
and  better  life — every  way — every  way — and  if  there 
is  a  God,  let  Him  strike  me  dead  if  I  ban't  telling  true. 
You've  changed  my  life,  and  I'm  a  fit  mate  for  you 
now  if  I  wasn't  before.  Yes,  you've  done  mighty 
deeds  in  my  heart,  young  Lizzie,  and  you've  lifted  me, 
and  if  I  never  saw  you  again  I'd  still  be  the  better 
for  the  past.  You've  made  your  bed — now  come  and 
lie  on  it !  And  remember  I'm  not  the  Trevail  sort. 
I'm  a  cold,  frog  of  a  man  most  times — I  only  burst 
out  like  a  volcano  off  and  on.  I  shall  never  be  such 
a  lover  as  him.  But  you  know  me — else  you  wouldn't 
be  here  I  reckon." 

He  talked  and  she  answered  in  brief  single  words. 
Then,  as  she  grew  calmer,  he  became  grimly  excited 
and  began  to  measure  all  that  this  must  mean.  He 
had  expected  it,  but  he  had  not  expected  it  so  soon. 

"  You're  mistress  here,"  he  said.  "  For  evermore. 
You'll  never  be  tired  of  me,  and  if  I  found  out  that 
you  were,  'tis  I  that  would  drown  myself,  not  you. 
We're  above  small  tongues  and  small  minds  and  small 
ideas.     We  make  our  own  laws,  you  and  me.     We're 


THE  BEACON  315 

one,  and  'tis  you  that  shall  think  and  plan  and  I  that 
shall  carry  out.  And  mark  this:  your  good's  my 
good  henceforth,  and  if  you  can't  face  this  hole  and 
the  people  in  it;  if  you'd  like  to  be  gone  from  here 
and  begin  again  elsewhere,  I'll  up  and  away.  You're 
my  life  from  this  day,  young  Lizzie,  and  I'll  go  to  the 
North  Pole  or  the  South  with  you.  But  only  this 
I'll  bargain  for :  I'm  an  open-air  beast  and  I  can't  be 
mewed  in  bricks  and  mortar.  Tis  no  use  doing  that 
with  me  for  I'd — " 

"  Know  me  better,"  she  said.  "  And  don't  think 
I'm  going  to  lead — or  try  to.  I've  had  enough  of 
that.  I  follow,  and  I've  chose  you  to  follow,  because 
you're  strong  and  you  love  me  and  you  won't  drive 
me  mad.  And  mind  this:  I  shall  never  think  un- 
kindly of  Charlie.  Never  a  man  meant  better  than 
him.     He  couldn't  help  being  what  he  was." 

"  Don't  talk  about  him.  He'll  make  a  good  bit  of 
noise  I  reckon;  but  the  belving  cow  soonest  forgets 
her  calf.  He'll  find  another  woman  on  his  own  pat- 
tern.    There's  plenty  of  his  sort  everywhere." 

Silence  fell  between  them.  Then  he  burst  out  into 
a  loud  triumph  and  worshipped  her  with  such  praise 
and  lover-like  fire  that  she  marvelled,  never  having 
guessed  the  possibility  in  him.  His  grimness  died 
out  of  him.  A  very  strange  sensation,  as  though  she 
had  mistaken  her  man  and  come  to  a  stranger  instead 
of  Reynold  Dunning,  flitted  over  Elisabeth.  She 
could  have  wished  that  at  this  moment  he  had  been 
more  reserved,  more  saturnine  and  self-possessed. 
She  desired  to  feel  his  immense  strength  and  will 
power. 

He  perceived  this  without  any  word  from  her. 
Her  eyes  told  him.  They  were  lovely  in  the  candle 
light  and  lustrous  with  tears  and  wistful  with  doubt. 

"  Come  to  the  table,"  he  said,  "  and  sit  out  of  reach 
of  me  on  t'other  side  of  it  and  we'll  talk  business. 
Now,  Lizzie,  how  d'you  want  it  to  be?     I — " 


316  THE  BEACON 

They  were  interrupted.  Unheard,  someone  had 
approached  over  the  grass  of  the  garden  and  reached 
the  house.  Now  there  came  a  single  knock  upon  the 
front  door.  Dunning  leapt  to  his  feet;  Lizzie  did 
not  move. 

"  Is  it  him  do  you  reckon  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Very  like,"  she  said. 

He  reflected  a  moment,  then  laughed. 

"  You  chose  the  right  night,"  he  declared.  "  My 
old  folks  are  away  at  a  funeral  near  London.  We've 
got  Clannaboro'  to  ourselves.     Come !  " 

He  pointed  to  the  stone  flight  of  stairs  that  led  up- 
ward from  the  kitchen  to  his  bedroom  and  opened 
the  door  that  concealed  it.  Again  a  single  knock — 
hollow  and  deep — fell  on  the  door.  There  was  some- 
thing sinister  about  the  sound  to  Elisabeth's  ear.  She 
put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  but  he  spoke  and  drove  her 
thought  out  of  her  head. 

"  Go  up — go  up  quick  and  make  fast  the  door  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs.  I'll  call  you  down  in  five  min- 
utes.    It  won't  take  longer." 

"  Be  gentle — and  be  careful  of  yourself." 

The  knock  sounded  again. 

He  thrust  the  candle  into  her  hand  and  pushed  her 
toward  the  stairs.  A  moment  later  she  heard  him 
shut  the  door  behind  her.  Then  she  ascended  the 
steps,  entered  a  room  at  the  top  and  locked  the  door 
of  it  as  he  had  directed.  For  a  few  moments  she 
stood  listening;  but  she  could  hear  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WAR  has  been  called  the  supreme  test  of  human- 
ity— the  ultimate  court  of  appeal  that  proves 
the  worth  of  man.  From  that  scorching  ordeal  at 
rare  intervals  he  emerges  deified ;  but  such  occasions 
seldom  happen  and  the  bulk  of  men  may  be  satisfied 
if  battle  detracts  nothing  from  them  and  leaves  them 
still  men,  not  slaves.  War  is  the  first  founder  of 
states,  the  chaos  on  which  every  cosmos  of  social  rela- 
tions must  be  based.  And  war  in  some  sort  every 
human  creature  is  called  upon  to  wage,  unless  he  be 
contented  from  the  outset  with  a  slave's  portion. 

Charles  Trevail,  by  accident  of  character  and  con- 
dition, was  born  a  slave,  nor  could  it  ever  have  come 
within  his  power,  under  any  environment,  to  be  other- 
wise and  stand  four-square  a  man.  Yet  now  he  went 
to  war;  and  he  believed,  rightly,  that  he  had  won  a 
mighty  victory  over  himself.  He  had  done  so,  but 
he  had  won  none  over  life.  His  fate  was  to  choose 
a  master:  he  had  been  called  to  no  higher  destiny 
than  that.  The  battle — great  for  such  a  fighter — was 
fought  on  Cosdun,  and  what  now  awaited  him  did  not 
by  comparison  seem  a  very  serious  matter  to  Trevail ; 
but  it  became  necessary  to  relate  his  victory  and  declare 
his  determination  to  another;  and  he  began  to  realise 
that  all  was  not  over  yet.  The  conclusion  with  him- 
self must  be  only  part  of  his  total  task  and  much  re- 
mained to  be  done.  The  resl  had  looked  easy  seen  far 
off.  but  now  he  stood  at  the  threshold  and  found  it 
hard.  He  began,  indeed,  to  perceive  that  only  half 
the  battle  was  won  and  the  foe  nov»  likely  to  be  ranged 
against  him  might  prove  far  more  formidable  than  he 
himself,   when   ranged    against   himself,    bad    proved. 

317 


318  THE  BEACON 

For  he  belonged  to  that  sort  of  spirit  that  may,  indeed, 
conquer  self,  but  nothing  else. 

He  came  now  to  his  uncle,  and  the  accident  of  the 
moment  caused  his  intention  to  prove  even  harder 
than  he  had  expected. 

Abraham  Mortimore  had  taken  his  defeat  badly 
and  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  intended  to  be 
revenged  on  Dunning.  He  raved  publicly  against 
his  victor  and  hesitated  not  to  declare  that  he  would 
ruin  the  quarry  before  his  date  of  departure  should 
come.  His  threats  were  futile;  but  Dunning  knew 
that  ferocity  was  a  familiar  weapon  with  the  old  man 
and  he  guessed  that  at  this  juncture  his  usual  caution 
in  sundry  particulars  might  be  over-ridden  by  sheer 
hunger  for  vengeance.  It  was  typical  of  Mortimore's 
state  that  he  could  still  speak  and  think  of  nothing  but 
Dunning.  He  assumed  that  the  listener  in  every  case 
was  similarly  concerned. 

"  You're  well  come,"  said  Trevail's  uncle.  "  I  want 
you.  I  don't  know  when  I'm  beat  and  I've  new  ideas 
about  this  man.  Nothing's  done  yet.  We've  tried 
fair  means;  now  we'll  try  foul." 

"  Don't  say  things  like  that.  What's  the  use  ?  It 
isn't  your  way  to  waste  your  energy  on  a  failure,  or 
batter  your  hand  at  a  locked  door.  The  quarry's 
gone,  and  if  you're  wise  you'll  admit  it  and  look 
round  for  other  things.  I've  thought  this  longful 
time  that  this  stone  pit  was  hardly  worthy  of  you. 
'Tis  a  rough  and  tumble  job  and  you,  with  your  brains 
and  your  money,  ought  to  be  doing  something  higher 
— in  the  way  of  mortgages  and  all  that.  Leave  such 
things  as  quarries  and  sheep  and  so  on  to  smaller  men. 
You  ought  to  be  working  in  figures  and  only  figures. 
You're  too  big  to  go  down  into  the  dirt  and  fight  such 
chaps  as  Dunning." 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"  No;  I'll  never  be  that  sort.  I  like  land  and  stone 
and  heaps  of  muck  and  potatoes  and  corn  and  what 


THE  BEACON  319 

not.  Or  beasts  that  you  can  punch  and  handle.  I 
belong  to  the  dirt,  and  I've  made  my  pile  out  of  it, 
and  I'll  not  be  driven  away  from  it.  What's  tbe  use 
of  mortgages  and  such  like  to  me?  I  want  to  feel 
and  touch  and  smell  the  things  that  belong  to  me.  I've 
got  a  plot.     I — " 

"  Hear  me,"  interrupted  his  nephew.  "  'Tisn't 
because  you  talk  of  tackling  Dunning  and  want  for 
me  to  help  you,  'tisn't  because  of  that,  but  because  of 
many  other  things  I've  wound  myself  up  to  take  a 
strong  step  next  spring.  You  see,  Uncle,  a  married 
man  can't  live  to  himself  alone,  and  he  can't  serve  two 
masters.  You  know  how  'tis  with  me  better  than  I 
can  tell  you.  You  know  my  Lizzie.  You  and  she 
are  a  bit  too  much  alike  really  and  that's  why  you've 
never  been  friends  and  never  will  be;  and  I've  got  to 
feel  that  between  you  there's  no  middle  course  for  me. 
I've  got  to  understand  that  in  this  matter  'tis  for  me 
to  take  a  strong  and  determined  step  and,  in  a  word, 
I'm  going  to  do  it." 

"  So  much  the  better.  Get  clear  of  her  and  you'll 
be  useful  to  me  again.  She've  ruined  more  of  my 
schemes  than  I  like  to  think  about — damn  her — and 
I  shall  always  know  that  but  for  her  the  quarry 
wouldn't  have  gone.  I  wish  to  God  she'd  took  Dun- 
ning and  not  you.  Then  much  would  have  fallen 
different  and  she'd  have  been  under  his  feet,  in  her 
proper  place,  long  afore  now.  But  you — you're  too 
weak  to  conquer  her  and  kick  her  into  sense ;  so  'tis 
better  you  be  rid  of  her  once  for  all.  Give  her  a  bit 
of  money  and  send  her  packing." 

"  No,  I  can't  do  that.  I've  suffered  a  lot  to  see 
how  ill  she  got  on  with  you,  because  I  was  powerless 
to  help  it,  and  felt  pretty  bad  betwixt  you;  but  a  wife's 
a  wife;  and  that's  what  I  know  and  you  do  not.  I 
can't  leave  her.  I  must  stick  to  her.  I  love  her 
dearly  and  she's  a  rare  good,  brave  woman  and  full  of 
high  opinions.     I've  not  done  anything  in  a  hurry, 


320  THE  BEACON 

Uncle  Abraham,  I've  thought  long  and  deep  and  I've 
come  to  see  that  it  can't  go  on — for  her  peace  or  for 
yours.  We  must  leave.  I  mean  to  go  come  Lady- 
day.  From  North  Combe  I  mean.  You'll  easily  find 
as  good  or  better  to  take  it  again.  I'm  going  further 
off.  And  don't  mistake  my  motives  for  doing  such  a 
big  thing.  'Twill  seem  a  terrible  rash  act  to  you; 
but  'tisn't  really;  'tis  the  wisest  and  properest  act 
that  ever  I  did ;  and  I  hope  you'll  look  all  around  it,  as 
your^custom  is,  and  see  that  only  so  can  there  be  any 
peace  for  me  or  her.  You  must  understand  how 
greatly  I  love  the  woman,  or  else  I  shouldn't  do  it. 
But  I  put  her  first — always  first  henceforth — accord- 
ing to  my  duty,  and  I  hope  to  God  you'll  see  I'm  do- 
ing what's  for  the  best." 

Mortimore  stared;  then  he  gave  off  an  impatient 
snort — a  loud  guttural  expiration,  half  a  growl. 

"  You've  bleated  enough,"  he  said,  "  and  you  show 
yourself  a  thankless,  cold-hearted  creature  even  to 
dream  of  such  things — let  alone  say  'em  to  me.  Good 
God !  Who  d'you  think  I  am  ?  You — you  to  say 
you'll  leave  North  Combe — you  to  turn  on  a  man  when 
he's  down,  and  that  man  me !  Must  I  jog  your  mem- 
ory a  bit?  But  I  won't,  I'd  scorn  to  do  that.  'Tis 
master  and  man  between  us,  I  can  tell  you,  since  you 
seem  to  have  forgot  it.  You  give  me  notice — eh? 
You  silly  worm !  'Tis  for  me  to  give  you  notice  when 
I  please.  You'd  go  from  North  Combe,  would  you? 
You'll  go  from  North  Combe  when  I  tell  you  to  go  and 
not  sooner.  You  want  wakening — why — fire  and 
hell !     you'll  call  your  soul  your  own  next !" 

He  burst  into  a  fierce  laugh,  but  Trevail  perceived 
the  anxiety  under  it.  And  the  evidence  of  that  anxi- 
ety strengthened  him. 

"  I  know  what  I  owe  you  and  I'm  not  likely  to  for- 
get it,"  he  answered.  "  You  are  an  amazing  man — 
the  most  remarkable  that  I've  ever  seen  or  shall  see — 
or  any  of  us  in  these  parts.     And  you've  been  a  good 

21 


THE  BEACON  321 

uncle  to  me;  and  I've  tried  to  be  a  good  nephew  to 
you;  but  a  man  must  be  allowed  to  be  a  free  thing 
and  you  can't  talk  to  me  like  this.  You  know  it  isn't 
proper.  You  take  such  Old  Testament  ideas  in  your 
head;  but  times  are  different  and  women  are  differ- 
ently thought  upon;  and  a  man's  wife  isn't  a  chattel, 
but  half  himself  and  more — far  more  to  me — than 
anything  else  can  be." 

"  You  set  her  up  between  us  and  think  she'll 
shelter  you  from  my  anger." 

"  Don't  show  anger.  You've  been  angry  enough 
and  too  angry  of  late.  What  use  have  you  got  for 
anger — a  wise  man  like  you?  Life's  life,  and  none 
can  have  it  all  his  own  way.  'Tis  giving  and  taking 
at  best,  and  if  you  don't  give,  the  world  will  look  to  it 
you  don't  take." 

"  A  coward's  motto ;  but  you  was  always  a  coward 
and  a  cur  to  the  marrow  in  your  bones.  You  set  up 
this  curse  made  alive  between  us  and  pretend  you 
love  her,  and  must  wreck  your  life  for  her;  and  think, 
when  I've  thrown  you  over,  you  can  slink  away  and 
live  in  some  hole  with  her  and  still  have  a  conceit  of 
yourself.  But  I  know  better  and  I  say  you  shan't  do 
it.  Let  the  traitor  go  and  wash  your  hands  of  her. 
You  to  go !  Don't  you  see  that  you're  the  only  thing 
on  this  earth  built  in  my  own  image  that  I  care  about  ? 
Not  another  living  man  is  there  that  I'd  cross  the 
way  to  save  from  death.  I'm  headed  off  here,  and 
I'm  headed  off  there,  and  I'm  hatching  hell  for  one  or 
two  that  be  laughing  in  their  sleeves  this  moment ; 
but  you — you — you've  been  my  right  hand  too  long 
to  part  now.  I  was  angry  when  you  began  this 
twaddle,  now  I  laugh.  I  threatened;  I'll  threat  no 
more,  but  laugh.  Don't  bring  it  to  blows  between  us. 
Do  as  you're  bid  and  be  sane,  Charlie." 
"  Sane  I  will  be,  and  help  you  to  be." 
"  This  is  a  new  way  of  talking  to  me." 
"  I've  got  to  do  it,  Uncle.     As  a  man  alone  I  was 

31 


822  THE  BEACON 

well  pleased  to  be  your  right  hand  where  I  could,  and 
do  your  pleasure,  and  feel  deep  in  your  debt;  but  I'm 
married  now  and  I've  got  a  grand,  good  wife  though 
you  don't  understand  her,  and  she  stands  first — since 
it's  come  to  be  a  doubt  of  what  stands  first.  I'm  sorry 
to  God  that  the  question  ever  had  to  rise  and  I've 
put  off"  and  off  answering  it,  till  'twould  be  a  feeble 
and  unmanly  thing  to  leave  it  unanswered  any 
longer." 

"  You  put  her  higher  than  me?  " 

"  Since  it  must  be  so,  I  do." 

"Have  you  thought  what  it  means  to  do  it? 
Have  you  seen  yourself  limping  along  without  me  and 
nought  but  that  nagging  wretch  to  push  behind?'1 

Trevail  showed  a  flash  of  spirit. 

"  If  anything  could  make  me  know  I'm  right,  'tis 
your  bitter  tongue.  Yes,  I've  thought  and  thought 
again;  and  the  more  I've  thought,  the  more  I've 
known  that  there  was  but  one  thing  for  it.  And  now, 
looking  back,  I'm  amazed  and  ashamed — ashamed  of 
myself — to  think  I  could  hesitate.  I  owe  you  a  great 
deal—" 

"  And  now  you  shall  pay  it  back.  By  God  to  the 
last  sixpence  you  shall !  " 

"  I'll  pay  back  all  in  my  power  to  pay  back." 

"  There's  nought  in  your  power  to  pay  back.  You 
go  from  me  a  bankrupt  and  you  bide  from  me  a  bank- 
rupt. While  I  live  you  owe  me  service,  and  if  you 
take  it  from  me  to  think  to  calm  your  conscience,  you 
fool  yourself,  for  your  conscience  will  call  you  a  thief 
to  your  dying  day — a  thief  and  a  rogue.  I've  done 
far,  far  more  for  you  than  you  can  ever  pay  back — 
far   more  than  money  can   pay  back.     And   if   you 

go-" 

He  broke  off  and  tramped  up  and  down  the  room. 
Trevail  found  himself  coming  out  as  the  strong  and 
determined  man.     The  experience  gratified  him. 

"  I  shan't  forget,  and  I  shall  have  it  in  my  power 


THE   BEACON  323 

to  do  you  many  a  service  yet.  Don't  think  that  life 
ever  comes  between  us  and  the  power  to  obey  con- 
science. I  shall  be  a  useful  nephew  to  you  and  never 
be  deaf  to  your  call ;  but  a  man  can't  live  for  duty  to 
the  past  alone.  Duty's  a  thing  of  every  day  and 
comes  fresh  with  every  morning  and  certain  as  the 
sun.  I've  got  a  great  duty  to  my  wife,  and  I  see  it 
clearer  than  ever  I  saw  it  before,  and  I'm  going  to  do 
it,  God  helping.  And  that  duty  is  to  take  her  away 
from  North  Combe  and  begin  a  new  life  with  her 
somewhere  else.  Her  pattern  is  a  fine  pattern  and 
her  aims  and  ends  are  all  right  and  proper — as  you'd 
be  the  first  to  allow  if  you  hadn't  come  to  hate  her. 
And  more  and  more  I  see  that  it  is  so.  In  the  matter 
of  Dunning  even,  though  I  felt  she  might  have  got  his 
secret  out  of  him,  I've  come  now  to  know  very  well 
she  was  right  to  scorn  the  thought.  She's  large- 
minded  and  she's  generally  in  the  right  and  Tin 
lifted  up  and  strong  to  make  her  life  a  happier  thing." 

"  You  put  her  higher  than  me?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"Then  wreck  your  life  and  be  a  pauper  forever! 
Tis  all  up  with  you  if  you  once  turn  on  me.  Leave 
me  and  I'll  hunt  you  like  a  dog  hunts  a  rabbit  and — " 

"  Don't  talk  that  way.     Don't—" 

But  the  elder  roared  him  down. 

"Have  done!"  he  said.  "Get  out  of  my  sight, 
you  thankless  wretch,  and  see  how  'tis  between  us 
when  we  meet  again.  I'll  be  revenged  for  this — 
such  a  vengeance  as  a  brain  like  yours  can't  think. 
But  you'll  feel  it.  'Tis  all  over  with  you  and  your 
hag  now — both — both  shall  lie  in  the  dirt!  Every- 
thing's gone  now.  I  wasn't  built  to  have  any 
human  creature  for  my  friend — not  even  you.  And 
vet  you  to  turn — like  this — such  friendship  as  I've 
shown  you — such  money  poured  out!' 

"  Listen  and  try  to  see — " 

"Gall — gall!     No  more  of   it.     And  I  cared    for 


324  THE   BEACON 

you — I  was  gentle  for  you — and  only  for  you.  And 
if  I'd  been  a  tiger  to  you,  like  the  rest,  and  played  a 
lone  hand  and  let  you  bide  a  workhouse  boy,  I  should 
never  have  been  deserted  in  my  grey  hairs." 

Trevail  rose. 

"  I've  said  enough  for  now.  I  don't  want  to  be 
unkind  or  ungrateful  or  thankless.  Far  from  that. 
I'm  only  going  from  North  Combe  to  the  other  side 
of  the  Moor.     I'll  be  within  call." 

"  Yes — you  shall  hear  from  me — don't  fear  that. 
In  striking  distance — near  enough  for  me  to  hear  you 
yelp  when  the  lash  comes  down.  Nothing  left — noth- 
ing left  now — d'you  understand  what  that  means? 
When  your  woman  trash  has  run  away  from  you,  as 
she  will  presently — then  you'll  know  what  'tis  to  have 
nothing  left  too.  But  don't  you  come  creeping  back 
to  me  then — don't  you  do  that.  Go  out  of  that  door 
and  God's  my  judge  I'll  never  let  you  in  again — 


never." 


The  younger  spoke  a  little  longer  and  was  then  or- 
dered away.  He  offered  his  hand  but  Mortimore 
refused  it.  Finally  Trevail  went  out  and  breathed  the 
night  air  thankfully.  His  mind  longed  and  panted 
for  sympathy.  He  was  hunger-starved  for  the  se- 
quel of  this  day  and  already  pictured  the  price  that 
Elisabeth  would  pay  for  his  great  renunciation.  The 
worst  was  over  now;  she  would  be  at  his  side  for 
evermore;  such  battles  as  remained  for  them  to  fight 
must  be  fought  together.  And  he  felt  also  no  little 
of  the  weak  man's  desire  for  praise.  He  yearned  for 
it.  He  wanted  much  to  hear  his  wife  listen  to  what 
he  was  about  to  tell  her.  Already  he  saw  the  light  of 
joy  in  her  face — the  glorious  surprise  at  the  thing  he 
had  done — the  pride  in  him,  the  applause.  He  felt 
that  only  Elisabeth  could  round  off  and  complete  so 
terrific  a  day.  For  once  he  had  moved  among  giant 
emotions  and  fought  with  lions  and  conquered  them. 


THE   BEACON  825 

He  felt  stronger  than  ever  he  had  felt — drunk  with 
strength.  He  was  excited  when  he  returned  home; 
he  seemed  to  be  walking  on  air;  he  wondered  at  him- 
self. Life  appeared  to  be  a  changed  thing.  He 
looked  at  it  for  a  moment  through  new  spectacles ; 
he  felt  just  then  that  he  had  mastered  it,  that  he  had 
it  by  the  throat;  that  the  world  was  his — a  thing  to 
pluck  up  and  throw  in  his  wife's  lap  carelessly.  He 
surprised  himself  again  and  again  and  examined  his 
sensations  curiously.  He  had  experienced  these 
sensations  once  or  twice  before — after  taking  too  much 
to  drink. 

He  gave  Elisabeth  all  the  credit  and  meant  to  do  so 
when  they  met;  but  well  he  knew  that  she  would 
refuse  it  and  return  it  to  him  a  thousandfold.  Her 
praise  was  always  splendid  and  limitless  when  she 
poured  it  out.  She  had  lifted  him  to  this,  he  assured 
himself,  and  knew  not  that  for  true,  pure  love  he  had 
worked  and  that  the  impulse  came  from  within  him- 
self alone.  The  greatest  passion  he  had  ever  felt, 
perhaps  the  only  great  passion  he  was  capable  of 
feeling,  centred  in  his  worship  of  this  woman;  and 
through  that  channel,  he  had  flowed  out  into  this  sea, 
had  made  her  cause  his  own,  her  desire  his  desire,  her 
welfare  his  welfare.  This,  while  no  mighty  thing  for 
love  to  accomplish  in  a  larger  nature,  or  among  emo- 
tions cast  in  a  grander  matrix,  was  a  considerable 
feat  for  a  man  of  these  humble  proportions.  Trevail 
had  not  risen  above  himself,  but  he  certainly  had 
ascended  to  the  utmost  limits  of  his  stature  and  the 
loftiest  possibilities  of  his  soul. 

He  came  home  rejoicing,  to  find  his  house  empty 
and  a  letter  awaiting  him.  Elisabeth  explained  that 
their  united  life  was  killing  them  by  inches  and 
poisoning  every  possibility  of  clean  and  fine  living 
for  them  both.  They  could  not  help  each  other; 
they  would  therefore  be  better  apart   for  evermore. 


326  THE  BEACON 

She  had  left  him  and  never  meant  to  return  to  him 
again.  She  knew  that  he  had  gone  to  his  uncle  and 
was  sure  he  had  done  the  wisest  thing  possible. 

She  wrote  with  a  marked  lack  of  self-restraint. 
The  letter  was  blotted  and  wrongly  spelled.  She 
stated  that  she  had  gone  to  Dunning.  She  made  no 
apology  for  the  appalling  suddenness  of  her  act.  In- 
deed she  left  it  clear  that  in  her  opinion  Trevail 
would  not  feel  great  surprise.  To  act,  so  she  wrote, 
was  her  familiar  part ;  and  she  knew  that  he  would  not 
be  astonished  that  she  had  done  so  and  thus  forced 
him,  for  once,  into  a  necessary  activity. 

It  was  half  an  hour  after  his  wife  had  left  North 
Combe  when  Trevail  returned  to  it. 


CHAPTER  XX 

FOR  ten  minutes  Elisabeth  sat  on  the  only  chair  in 
Dunning's  bedroom  and  waited  until  he  should 
call  her  again.  Her  eyes  looked  inward  and  she 
ranged  in  thought  over  the  past  years.  The  spectacle 
of  herself  surprised  herself.  She  examined  her  career 
from  the  outside  and  judged  it  impartially  as  the 
achievement  of  another.  She  mourned  it,  but  she 
found  no  fault  with  it.  That  Trevail  would  quickly 
recover  from  the  blow,  she  felt  positive.  She  had 
been  kind  to  him  in  leaving  him  and,  after  the  first 
shock  had  swept  over  him,  he  would  undoubtedly  re- 
joice and  breathe  again.  Already  she  felt  herself 
breathing  again.  Dunning  was  the  necessary  com- 
plement to  her  own  nature.  He  had  often  proved 
infinitely  useful  to  her;  and  he  had  declared  her  value 
to  him.  He  was  no  liar,  and,  indeed,  she  knew,  with- 
out any  word  from  him,  that  she  had  influenced  his 
life  and  been  a  valuable  force  in  it.  He  had  declared 
as  much  and  she  had  marked  it  through  other,  subtler 
manifestations  than  Dunning  himself  recognised. 
Her  regard  for  him  was  fierce — akin  to  the  affection 
of  an  artist  for  the  last  thing  that  he  has  made.  She 
had  time  now  to  contrast  her  present  and  past  emo- 
tions and  wonder  that  loves  could  be  so  dissimilar. 

Three  parts  of  an  hour  sped  and  the  woman  came 
back  to  reality,  speculated  as  to  what  manner  of  con- 
versations was  passing  beneath  her  and  marvelled  that 
one  so  short  of  speech  as  Dunning  could,  at  this  junc- 
ture of  his  life,  spend  so  much  time  upon  it. 

She  looked  round  the  room  and  took  note  of  im- 
plicit statement.  Reynold  Dunning  seemed  reflected 
in  his  sleeping  place.     The  walls  were  whitewashed 

327 


328  THE  BEACON 

and  the  floor  was  bare.  A  narrow  bed  stood  in  one 
corner,  a  chest  of  drawers  in  another,  a  washing- 
stand  in  a  third.  Some  boots  and  leggings  were 
heaped  beside  the  bed ;  the  grate  was  empty,  but  on 
the  mantel-shelf  appeared  a  picture  in  a  wooden  frame. 
It  was  the  portrait  of  the  master's  mother. 

Elisabeth  examined  this  faded  photograph  and 
found  that  it  resembled  the  man  with  whom  she  had 
now  thrown  in  her  lot.  Hence  came  his  eyes  and  the 
melancholy  cast  of  his  features. 

She  turned  to  the  window  and  opened  it  and  looked 
into  the  darkness.  Unfamiliar  outlines  of  tree  and 
roof  rose  against  the  starry  sky.  "This  is  my 
house,"  she  whispered  to  herself. 

She  sat  down  again  presently;  then,  after  waiting 
for  another  half-hour,  opened  the  bedroom  door  and 
listened.  No  sound  rose  up  the  staircase  and  she  de- 
scended gently  to  the  door  below.  Still  silence  held 
the  room  and  she  perceived  that  Dunning  and  her 
visitor  must  have  departed  together.  She  opened  the 
kitchen  door  to  find  the  fire  nearly  out  and  the  room 
empty.  A  clock  ticked  and  she  heard  the  cheerful 
chirrup  of  a  house  cricket  from  the  hearth. 

She  stood  and  hesitated  what  to  do.  Then  a  whim 
took  her  to  mend  the  fire,  seek  the  larder  and  prepare 
Dunning  some  supper  against  his  return. 

She  approached  the  grate;  but  her  foot  caught  in 
something  stretched  upon  the  ground  and  she  fell  on 
to  a  man.  He  was  half  under  the  table  and  his  head 
and  shoulders  thrust  forth  toward  the  fire. 

She  rose  to  find  one  of  her  hands  wet  and  red.  She 
knew  not  where  to  find  a  light  so  went  back  to  the 
bedroom  and  brought  the  candle  down  with  her. 
Then  she  found  that  Reynold  Dunning  was  lying  by 
his  hearth  with  much  blood  about  the  place  where  his 
head  had  fallen. 

She  held  the  light  to  his  face,  and,  though  she  had 
never  seen  a  corpse  in  her  life,  understood  well  that 


THE  BEACON  329 

she  gazed  upon  one.  His  face  was  disfigured  and  half 
painted  with  blood;  his  eyes  and  mouth  were  open. 
She  took  his  hand  and  found  it  cold.  A  great  house 
beetle  darted  from  beneath  the  dead  and  ran  into  his 
blood  and  stuck  there.  She  stared  at  it  and  watched 
it  struggle  from  the  slough  and  disappear  beyond  the 
ring  of  light  cast  by  her  candle. 

She  knelt  down  beside  Dunning,  and  spoke  to  him 
and  kissed  his  forehead. 

Then  she  rose  from  him  and  stood  and  wondered 
what  she  should  do.  The  man's  blood  was  upon  her 
hands  and  her  face.  She  forgot  every  living  creature 
in  the  world  and  her  heart  poured  out  to  this  dead  one. 
She  was  unshaken  now  and  her  mind  had  strung  itself 
up  to  face  Dunning's  murder.  "  This  is  my  home," 
she  said  aloud,  as  she  had  whispered  it  not  long  be- 
fore. 

It  seemed  but  a  moment  ago  that  this  battered  dust 
was  a  strong,  joyous  man,  crowing  with  exultation — 
the  goal  of  his  hope  in  sight.  Alive,  his  welfare  must 
henceforth  have  been  her  own;  dead,  he  was  still  a 
name  to  confess  and  justify  and  defend. 


BOOK  III  . 

CHAPTER  I 

CERTAIN  details  of  incident  which  followed  the 
death  of  Reynold  Dunning  may  be  dismissed  as 
speedily  as  possible. 

Elisabeth  Trevail,  standing  before  the  corpse,  felt 
as  yet  no  grief,  but  grappled  with  the  tremendous  prob- 
lem before  her  and  planned  her  actions.  Pity  actu- 
ated her,  and  first  the  flickering  hope  that,  after  all, 
Dunning  might  not  be  dead. 

There  was  a  doctor  at  Zeal  and  she  went  to  him  and 
dispatched  him  to  Clannaboro'.  Then  she  sought  a 
nurse  and  returned  with  this  woman  to  the  farm. 
The  doctor  was  already  there  and  stopped  for  a  short 
time  with  the  women.  He  left  presently  and  called 
at  the  police-station. 

At  dawn  came  Charles  Trevail  and  spoke  with  his 
wife.  He  had  read  her  letter  and  having  read  it  had 
roamed  through  the  night  for  many  hours.  Wander- 
ing thus  nigh  Clannaboro',  in  doubt  whether  to  go 
there  and  see  Dunning,  he  met  a  policeman  returning 
to  Zeal  from  the  farm  and  so  heard  what  had  hap- 
pened. Thereupon  he  hastened  thither  and  learned 
that  his  wife  was  sleeping  in  the  parlour.  The  nurse 
had  laid  out  Dunning  and  busied  herself  about  the 
place  until  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vallance  should  return.  A 
labourer  was  gone  for  the  undertaker ;  and  the  police, 
who  remained  in  authority,  told  Trevail  that  the  in- 
quest would  probably  take  place  on  the  morrow. 

Charles  then  went  into  the  dwelling-room  and  stood 
and  looked  at  Lizzie,  who  slept  heavily  upon  a  sofa 

330 


THE  BEACON  831 

under  the  window.  He  woke  her  and  they  talked  to- 
gether for  a  long  time. 

She  told  him  all  that  she  knew  and  he  received  it 
calmly  and  believed  her.  He  mentioned  that  he  had 
read  her  letter  on  returning  from  his  uncle  and  that  it 
had  caused  him  the  greatest  suffering  of  his  life.  He 
had  spent  the  night  afoot  in  the  air. 

"  I've  heard  you,  Elisabeth,"  he  said.  "  Now  you 
must  listen  to  me.  I  shouldn't  trouble  you  with  the 
past  at  a  minute  like  this;  but  we  may  not  have  the 
chance  to  go  into  it  again.  And  so  far  as  I  can  see,  it 
will  be  the  past  that  they'll  have  to  probe  through 
and  through  before  they  get  to  the  secret  of  this." 

She  looked  at  him  in  the  gathering  light;  then  she 
drew  the  blind  up  that  she  might  see  him  better. 

"  We  won't  talk  about  ourselves  more  than  we  can 
help.  They  may  think  you  did  it  after  getting  my 
letter;  or  they  may  think  I  did." 

"  Listen,"  he  said.  "  When  I  tell  you  why  I  went 
to  my  uncle  last  night,  you'll  understand  better.  You 
thought  I  was  going  to  throw  you  over,  Lizzie.  I 
knew  you  thought  so,  and  like  a  fool — a  fool  always 
and  for  ever — I  let  you  think  so.  I  left  you  meaning 
to  do  one  thing,  but  knowing  you  fancied  I  was  going 
to  do  another.  God  knows  what  whim  made  me 
leave  you  in  doubt — or  more  like  the  devil.  This  is 
all  my  work  in  a  way.  Even  at  the  moment  of  doing 
the  best  and  most  decent  deed  I  ever  did,  I  let  some 
small  spite  creep  in;  and  so  all's  lost  and  we  stand  to 
each  other  as  we  stand  now." 

She  stared  at  him  in  great  horror.  She  spoke 
slowly  after  a  silence. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  you  had  chosen  once  for  all.  I 
didn't  blame  you.  It  was  natural.  Then  I  felt  what 
Reynold  was — a  tower  of  strength  to  me.  I'm  proud. 
I  couldn't  wait  to  be  told  to  go,  Charlie." 

He  rehearsed  the  scene  with  his  uncle  and  she  re- 
lated it  with  the  tragedy  of  the  night. 


332  THE  BEACON 

When  he  had  finished,  she  summed  up. 

"  You  were  coming  back  to  me?  " 

"  'Twas  to  be  the  great  moment  of  a  great  day." 

Her  mind  trembled.  Instinctively  she  gripped  at 
the  side  of  the  sofa  on  which  she  sat  and  shut  her  eyes 
to  avoid  the  whirling  image  of  the  man  before  her. 
He  sat  on  a  chair  and  looked  straight  into  her  face. 

"  You  must  think  of  me  as  having  gone — long, 
long  ago.  Time's  nothing.  I  stand  here  now  as  the 
widow  of  that  slain  man.  He  was  good  to  me  and 
understood  me  and  loved  me.  Time's  nothing  I  say. 
Though  'twas  but  last  night  I  came,  yet  'tis  half  a 
life-time—" 

"  We'll  talk  about  you  another  day,  Lizzie,"  he 
answered  quietly.  "  You've  done  what  you  wanted 
to  do,  and  I've  done  what  I  wanted  to  do — hard, 
difficult  things  both.  We've  parted  and  can  leave  it 
so.  You  can  tell  me  as  much  or  as  little  as  you  please 
about  your  secret  life  with  Dunning  some  other  time 
if  you  want  to.  He's  dead  and  you  hold  yourself  his 
widow.  Let  it  stand  like  that.  And  now  what  are 
you  going  to  do  about — the  man  who  killed  him  ?  ' 

"  I  would  hang  him  with  my  own  hand  if  I  could 
do  it." 

"You  know  how  it  fell  out?  'Twas  my  uncle — 
driven  frantic  by  me." 

"  He  must  have  struck  him  down  when  his  back 
was  turned.  I'd  been  with  him  not  half  an  hour 
when  somebody  knocked.  I  suppose  Reynold  was 
getting  drink  for  him.  The  cupboard  door  was 
open." 

"  You  swear  to  me  you  know  no  more  of  it  than 
that,  Lizzie?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  want  you  to  tell  nought  but  the 
stark  truth  when  they  come  to  question  you.  About 
how  I'd  left  you  and  everything." 

"  If  I  do,  they'll  say  that  I  might  have  killed  the 
man  myself.     There's  motive  enough." 


THE  BEACON  833 

"  None  that  knows  you  would  think  that." 

"  The  Law  don't  know  me." 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  that  happening?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  afraid  of  nought  now. 
I've  got  nothing  left  to  lose,  so  what  should  I  be 
afraid  of?  My  life  ended  last  night.  You  hold  me 
too  cheap  even  now.  I've  got  a  character,  and  I'm 
a  bigger,  stronger  creature  than  ever  you  or  I  guessed. 
I  found  it  out  yesterday;  and  if  I'd  told  you  the 
instant  moment  I'd  found  it  out,  Dunning  might  be 
dead,  same  as  he  is  now,  but  you'd  be  my  wife  to 
North  Combe  still,  not  his  '  widow,'  as  you  call  your- 
self, now  at  Clannaboro'.  Good  God!  what  a  thin 
thread  the  things  that  matter  hang  upon!  Can't  you 
see — can't  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  can  see  very  well,  Charlie." 

"  And  I'd  have  confessed  to  you,  and  you'd  have 
confessed  to  me — and — " 

"  I  had  nought  to  confess  before  last  night." 

"  You  swear  that,  Lizzie  ?  " 

"  You  know  me.  Till  I  left  you,  I  was  faithful  in 
word  and  deed." 

"  That's  light — light  in  the  darkness  then." 

"  But  not  news — you  knew  that  well  enough." 

He  did  not  speak  and  she,  feeling  a  traitress  to  the 
dead,  qualified  her  last  speech. 

"  But  I  loved  him — I  loved  him  better  than  I  loved 
you.  I'd  left  you  in  heart  long  before  I  did  it.  I 
was  quite  alone  for  ages  of  time  before  I  turned  to 
him.  And  he  came  to  fill  my  empty,  useless  life  and 
make  it  useful  again.  I  won't  excuse  anything  1 
thought  or  hoped,  or  the  plans  I  made.  Nothing — 
nothing  will  I  excuse.  He  was  a  good,  honest  man, 
and  he  was  honest  to  me  and  he  warned  me  a  thou- 
sand times  that  I  was  ruining  your  life." 

"  Who  made  me  do  what  I  did  ?  Who  made  me 
choose  to  begin  all  over  again — just  with  you  and  only 
you?     Who  lifted   me   to   that,   Lizzie?     You   know 


334  THE  BEACON 

well  enough.  Be  honest  and  fair  to  the  dead — I 
don't  quarrel  with  you  for  that;  but  be  honest  and 
fair  to  the  living  too." 

"  'Tis  too  late  to  talk  so.  I  know  all  that's  hap- 
pened.    And  it's  happened  well  for  you,  Charlie." 

"  You  can  say  so !  " 

"  And  you'll  say  it  presently.  Leave  it  all — leave 
us — me  and  my  dead.     You  have  no  place  here." 

"  I'll  go,  but  listen  first.  See  how  it  fell  out. 
Look  all  round  it.  I  do  a  thing  that  drives  my  old 
man  frantic,  and  the  savage  nature  of  him  breaks 
bounds.  He  must  be  letting  blood  out  of  somebody. 
And  naturally  he  strikes  here — at  his  first  enemy. 
He'd  link  Dunning  with  all  his  trouble — with  the 
quarry  and  with  you  and  with  everything.  If  you'd 
been  along  with  the  man — Dunning  I  mean — and 
Mortimore  had  found  you  together — he'd  have  killed 
you  both." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  he  wouldn't,"  she  answered.  "  If  I'd  known 
that  it  was  Mortimore,  I  should  not  have  gone  up  to 
the  bedroom.  Because  I  should  have  felt  what  was 
brewing  and  been  able  to  save  him.  If  your  uncle  had 
seen  me  here,  he'd  have  been  happy.  He'd  have  left 
us  and  known  very  well  that  you  were  free  and  would 
soon  be  back  with  him  again.  I  thought  'twas  you : 
that's  why  I  hid  myself.  'Twasn't  for  me  to  see  you 
then.  Do  you  understand  how  'tis  with  me,  Charlie? 
I  thought  to  save  two  men.  Instead  I've  ruined 
two." 

He  did  not  speak  and  they  pursued  their  thoughts. 

After  a  considerable  silence  he  told  her  that  she 
might  return  to  his  home  for  the  present  if  she  cared 
to  do  so;  but  she  refused. 

"  Only  I  know  of  your  letter  to  me,"  he  said. 

"  'Tis  generous,  but  you  must  think  of  me  as  if  he 
was  alive." 

"  I  can't  do  that,  Lizzie." 


THE  BEACON  335 

"  You  shall,  you  shall,"  she  cried  passionately. 
"  He  is  alive  to  me !  'Twill  take  cruel  long  days  and 
months  before  I  can  think  of  him  as  dead.  And  for 
you — tell  the  truth  and  fear  nothing.  Your  state  is 
good.  You  are  to  be  envied  by  all  men.  You've 
done  right — you've  risen  above  yourself  and  shown 
yourself  a  strong  and  a  wise  man.  And  you're  well 
paid — well  paid.  There's  two  thorns  out  of  your 
path  at  one  stroke;  and  if  they  catch  that  old  man 
and  hang  him,  as  they  surely  will — then — don't  you 
see?" 

"  How  can  you — oh,  my  God,  Lizzie !  How  can 
you  be  so  mean?  " 

He  got  up  and  started  to  go.     Then  he  turned. 

"  Remember  I'm  at  hand.  Lift  your  finger  and  I'll 
come  to  help  you  through  this." 

"Thank  you,"  she  answered.  "I've  thought  that 
I  was  standing  alone  in  the  world  often  and  often 
before  this  hour.  Fool  that  I  was!  But  now — now 
I  am  alone  and  shall  find  what  it  means.  Now  I'll 
see  if  I'm  worth  any  man's  pains.  And,  since  he 
had  to  die,  I'm  glad — I'm  glad,  I  tell  you,  to  be  so 
utterly  alone.  For  life's  given  me  the  chance  to 
know  myself — such  a  chance  as  never  a  woman  had 
yet.  I'll  see  him  into  his  grave  and  weep  myself 
blind  for  him  when  I  come  to  feel  he's  gone.  That 
I'll  do  and  then— then— " 

She  broke  off  and  smiled  before  her ;  while  he  went 
out  haunted  by  her  look  for  ever. 

The  coroner's  jury  brought  in  a  verdict  of  murder 
against  persons  unknown  and,  having  regard  for  her 
blood-stained  clothes,  Elisabeth  was  detained  in  cus- 
tody while  the  police  made  inquiries. 

For  three  days  she  remained  at  Okehampton  and 
was  then  liberated — to  learn  that  her  husband  had 
been  arrested  on  suspicion. 


CHAPTER  II 

DURING  the  silent  hours  in  which  she  was  with- 
drawn from  the  world,  Elisabeth  Trevail  had 
leisure  to  consider  of  the  past  and  determine  her  ac- 
tions in  the  future.  She  welcomed  the  in  forced  peace, 
but  did  not  fear  the  attitude  of  the  people  when  she 
returned  among  them. 

Grief  paid  a  heavy  visitation,  but  between  the  in- 
tervals of  poignant  sorrow  and  vain  regret,  she 
weighed  the  meaning  of  her  life  and  balanced  its  good 
and  evil.  First  she  thought  upon  Dunning  and  again 
saw  herself  standing  with  the  Vallances  at  his  grave. 
A  mob  attended  the  funeral,  but  none  came,  save 
from  curiosity,  excepting  herself  and  his  two  old 
attendants.  She  was  his  widow  in  every  moral  sense, 
and  she  clung  to  the  idea  and  won  a  sort  of  consola- 
tion from  it.  He  died  intestate  and  his  goods  passed 
into  the  hands  of  strangers.  As  for  her,  she  had 
directed  that  her  clothes  and  a  few  personal  posses- 
sions should  be  sent  from  North  Combe  to  Clanna- 
boro'. 

And  now  she  reviewed  life  and  measured  the  influ- 
ence of  two  men  on  her  own  existence  and  her  influ- 
ence on  theirs.  The  closed  chapter  of  Dunning's 
days  first  occupied  her  and  she  saw  with  vivid  clarity 
all  that  he  had  meant  to  her.  She  associated  him 
with  the  Beacon  as  a  tonic,  a  potent  energy,  a  drastic, 
dynamic  agent.  Indeed  she  confused  his  force  with 
the  Beacon's.  He  had  been  the  incarnation  of  the 
heath  and  granite  under  certain  of  its  moods.  His 
effect  had  been  salutary,  sane  and  harsh.  She  had 
lost  as  well  as  won  from  contact  with  him;  but  she 
had  won  far  more  than  she  had  lost.     She  loved  him 

336 


THE  BEACON  337 

better,  now  that  he  was  dead,  than  she  had  loved  him 
living.  The  rational  process  of  thought  appeared  to 
be  reversed  with  her  at  this  juncture  and  she  felt  not 
sorry  for  herself  that  Dunning  was  dead,  but  sorry 
for  him.  Yet  such  sorrow  he  would  have  been  the 
first  to  mock.  His  familiar  motto  was  to  call  no  man 
lucky  until  he  was  dead.  Yet  she  remembered  his  ex- 
ultation and  lover-like  worship  in  the  last  moment  that 
they  had  stood  together.  She  remembered  how  he 
seemed  to  grow  younger  under  her  eyes;  how  the  joy 
of  life  thus  suddenly  within  his  reach,  softened  the 
very  lines  of  his  face.  She  wasted  hours  in  speculat- 
ing as  to  the  probable  course  of  their  united  lives  if 
he  had  lived.  And,  as  often  as  she  did  so,  the  woman 
caught  herself  up,  smothered  her  tears  and  turned  im- 
patiently to  more  practical  reflection. 

Dunning  had  strengthened  her  character  at  cost  of 
certain  qualities:  she  admitted  that  as  she  retraced 
her  married  days.  What  she  had  done  for  him  it 
was  too  late  to  consider;  time  only  would  have  re- 
vealed the  extent  of  her  past  and  future  influence  on 
him;  but  she  gauged  with  fair  correctness  his  mark 
upon  her;  and  loyalty  made  her  dwell  with  love  on 
the  valuable  knowledge  that  she  had  received  from 
him. 

Yet  those  attributes  that  had  helped  to  ruin  her 
career  could  not  be  ignored.  She  felt  that,  but  for 
Dunning  and  his  counsel,  she  would  never  have  left 
her  husband.  Even  in  her  fervent  moments,  when 
the  dead  seemed  to  live  again  and  she  saw  him  in  the 
darkness,  Elisabeth  felt  that  more  for  a  principle 
than  for  a  man  had  she  deserted  Charles  Trevail.  She 
knew  it,  but  understood  the  absurdity  of  expecting 
any  other  creature  to  believe  it.  She  had  no  excuses 
to  offer  for  the  past;  indeed  the  idea  of  an  excuse 
entered  not  her  thoughts.  She  knew,  however,  that 
her  husband  would  make  excuses  for  her,  because  it 
was  his  nature  to  do  so  for  all  mistaken  and  erring 

32 


338  THE  BEACON 

things;  but  they  had  finished  with  one  another  now, 
and  it  was  subjectively  alone  that  she  considered  him. 

She  felt  intensely  interested  in  him  and  immeasur- 
ably proud  of  what  he  had  sacrificed  for  her.  She 
wasted  no  time  in  considering  further  that  nothing 
but  the  incident  of  his  reticence  at  the  last  moment 
had  sent  her  to  Dunning;  she  did  not  dwell  upon  the 
fact  that  had  Charlie  told  her  of  his  business  with 
Mr.  Mortimore  instead  of  hiding  it,  she  would  be  his 
wife  still.  For  her  that  catastrophe  was  as  nothing 
beside  the  reality  of  the  thing  that  Trevail  had  done. 
When  as  she  supposed  all  was  lost,  all  had  been  gained. 
Defeat  was  turned  into  victory;  her  influence  and  his 
single-hearted  love  had  triumphed  over  his  character, 
lifted  him  above  it,  and  performed  a  miracle. 

She  was  shaken  deeply  as  she  worked  out  these 
ideas,  ior  they  meant  much  to  her.  They  gave  the 
lie  to  the  dead;  they  seemed  to  contradict  Dunning's 
prophecies  that  no  man  could  rise  above  himself;  they 
shattered  Elisabeth's  own  sorrowful  conclusions  on 
the  same  plane.  The  thing  declared  impossible  had 
happened :  for  pure  love,  this  man  had  done  a  deed, 
mighty  and  heroic,  when  considered  in  connection 
with  the  attributes  of  his  character.  Her  maiden 
dreams  and  hopes  had  come  true.  The  ideal  vision, 
long  since  shattered  by  communion  with  Dunning  and 
with  life,  trembled  back  upon  her  heart  out  of  the 
long  darkness,  like  a  rainbow  declared  fitfully  between 
passages  of  storm.  But  it  persisted  now — the  sole 
light  in  her  gloom.  It  was  a  good  and  gracious  thing 
to  feel  that  from  this  welter  of  tribulation  one  at  least 
had  struggled  free  and  emerged  stronger,  wiser,  bet- 
ter armed  to  fight  the  battle  ahead  of  him.  She  dwelt 
very  long  upon  her  past  years  with  Charlie  and  began 
to  trace,  like  a  thread  of  gold  through  the  uneven 
texture  of  their  married  life,  the  thing  that  saved  him 
at  the  last.  But  she  had  not  seen  it  in  time ;  she  had 
not  perceived  how  his  great  love  had  struggled  on 


THE  BEACON  339 

and  persisted  against  every  obstacle ;  that  in  truth  and 
despite  all,  she  had  been  his  beacon  through  the  dark- 
est night. 

She  confessed  frankly  to  herself  that  Trevail's  love 
was  cast  in  a  far  grander  pattern  than  her  own.  She 
had  loved  herself  better  than  her  husband;  she  had 
put  her  self-respect  and  ambition  and  sense  of  obliga- 
tion to  her  own  character  higher  than  her  love  for  him. 
His  canine  patience  and  faithfulness  had  wearied  her, 
because  his  protestations  had  appeared  to  be  unequal 
to  her  tests.  But  now  he  had  risen  in  might  and  done 
a  great  thing;  and  it  was  her  punishment  that  he  had 
done  it  too  late.  She  was  justly  treated  and  felt  that 
none  could  have  measured  a  more  fitting  reward. 

She  much  wondered  what  Trevail  would  do  with 
his  future  life,  now  that  the  sacrifice  was  vain.  She 
saw  him,  between  two  stools,  upon  the  ground  and 
was  terribly  sorry  for  him.  She  asked  herself  if  she 
would  pick  him  up,  did  the  power  still  remain  to 
her;  but  she  knew  that  the  power  was  for  ever  gone. 
She  planned  his  future  in  thought  and  guessed  that 
he  might  even  atone  to  his  uncle — supposing  that 
Mortimore  was  not  convicted  of  the  crime.  For  how 
could  Trevail — now  that  the  reed  on  which  he  had 
leant  had  broken  and  pierced  him  thus — believe  any 
further  in  its  value?  His  love  must  of  a  surety  turn 
to  hate  at  last;  and  yet  she  knew  well  enough  that 
would  not  happen,  for  gifted  though  he  might  be  as  a 
lover,  her  husband  lacked  power  to  hate.  She  guessed 
that  a  period  of  acute  torment  would  dull  gradually 
into  indifference,  as  time  blunted  his  memory.  He 
would  drag  out  certain  length  of  days,  and  then 
another  woman  would  enter  his  life  and  recompense 
him  worthily  and  reawaken  his  power  of  loving.  So 
she  planned  his  future — still  under-valuing  him.  But 
she  could  not  deny  herself  the  task  of  measuring  her 
own  influence  upon  his  subsequent  days.  Her  moods 
and  fancies  ran  over  the  theme,  and  now  again  she 


340  THE  BEACON 

told  herself  that  he  must  stamp  her  and  her  image 
out  of  his  soul  for  ever — that  he  must  turn  with 
hatred  and  loathing  from  every  instinct  and  prompt- 
ing that  could  be  traced  to  her.  But  then  she  felt  that 
it  would  not  be  so  and  that,  think  of  her  as  he  might, 
Trevail  must  bear  her  imprint  to  the  grave,  her  mark 
upon  his  soul  for  evermore ;  and  his  soul  would  be  in- 
deed the  sadder,  but  also  the  sweeter  and  stronger  for 
it. 

She  sickened  utterly  of  life  before  she  was  liberated, 
because  her  own  soul,  that  had  interested  her  so  pro- 
foundly, was  now  hateful  to  her.  Yet  she  brimmed 
with  vitality,  despite  her  suffering,  and  sorrow  could 
not  lessen  that.  She  wanted  to  begin  living  again. 
She  craved  for  time  to  pass  and  her  new  life  to  open. 
She  missed  the  presence  of  a  man  in  her  days,  and 
marvelled  at  herself  that  she  could  do  so.  She 
longed  to  plunge  back  to  work,  to  toil  from  dawn  till 
night  without  ceasing  and  so  tame  her  body  by 
drudgery.  Her  purpose  was  to  live  in  complete  isola- 
tion so  far  as  she  could  do  so.  She  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  trying  to  influence  any  living  thing  again. 

She  worked  herself  into  a  great  emotion  and  sleep 
deserted  her. 

At  more  peaceful  moments  she  became  introspec- 
tive and  measured  the  depth  of  the  mark  these  men 
had  made  on  her.  At  first  it  appeared  that  her  hus- 
band had  left  no  impression  and  that  the  changes 
were  due  to  Dunning  alone.  But  she  found  that, 
whatever  might  have  been  the  failure  of  Trevail  in 
the  past,  he  had  influenced  her  mightily  in  the  present 
and  probably  taught  her  the  most  valuable  thing  that 
she  had  ever  learned.  Now  that  they  were  separated 
for  ever,  she  began  to  entertain  a  respect  for  him  un- 
known until  now.  She  was  impatient  with  herself  for 
doing  so  and  tried  to  assure  herself  that  did  she  re- 
turn to  him,  she  would  find  him  radically  unchanged. 

Her  conscience  was  clear.     She  did  not  blame  her- 


THE  BEACON  841 

self  in  any  respect  whatever.  Her  act  had  hastened 
no  tragedy  and  struck  no  blow.  She  began  to  wonder 
what  expression  would  sit  on  the  human  faces  of  Zeal 
when  she  returned  among  them  for  some  few  brief 
days  before  departing. 

Her  thoughts  drifted  to  the  Beacon  then.  She  an- 
ticipated the  parting  from  it  and  she  was  not  surprised 
to  find  that,  since  Dunning's  death,  the  hill  was  only 
a  mighty  grief  to  her  and  she  longed  to  see  it  no  more. 
That  discovery  opened  a  dark  channel  with  deep  places 
of  sorrow  in  it.  Could  it  be  that  she  had  confused 
him  with  the  hill  and  credited  stones  with  teaching 
that  came  in  truth  from  a  man's  heart?  The  Bea- 
con's joy  was  gone  from  her,  like  a  morning  cloud, 
and  only  its  torment  remained.  It  had  been  a  delu- 
sion and  a  shadow,  had  come  between  her  and  a 
fellow  soul;  had  deceived  her  in  some  sort  and  ap- 
propriated what  was  a  man's.  The  thing  in  itself 
now  seemed  as  nought;  its  spirit  had  passed  from  it 
and  a  barren  pile  of  stones  and  fern,  lifted  against 
the  sky  and  tortured  by  storm,  was  all  that  remained. 
Its  magic  had  passed  out  of  it;  its  romance  was  dead; 
the  stories  she  had  woven  around  it  were  untrue;  the 
misty  people  that  she  had  dreamed  of  were  vanished 
quite  before  this  grey  morning  of  reality.  Now  she 
hated  the  great  hill  because  it  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
rob  the  dead  man  of  his  due.  Then  she  felt  a  frantic 
wish  that  he  might  have  been  buried  on  the  top  of  it; 
and  then,  again,  she  recollected  that  Cosdon's  crown 
was  sacred  to  Trevail. 

Facts  soon  thundered  upon  her  at  every  turn  and 
she  grew  dazed  and  bruised  before  them.  They  liber- 
ated her  and  she  returned  instantly  to  Clannaboro'; 
but  the  house  was  shut  against  her  and  a  strange  man 
bade  her  fetch  her  boxes  and  depart. 

"  'Tis  an  ill  wind  blows  none  good,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
the  cousin  of  this  dead  chap  and  all  that  he  had  be 
mine.     But  there's  plenty  depend  upon  me.     Anyway 


342  THE  BEACON 

there's  nothing  here  for  you — you  understand  that?'1 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  she  said.  "  I'll  send  for  my 
things  this  evening." 

"  They're  waiting.  'Tis  all  going  to  be  sold.  I've 
got  no  use  for  Clannaboro'.  Well,  I'll  wish  you 
good-day." 

She  turned  to  go  and  he  spoke  again. 

"  I've  got  no  quarrel  with  you  and  ain't  no  great 
stickler  for  vartue — no  more  than  my  cousin  was. 
You  can  take  a  momentum  of  the  man  if  you  like — 
a  pocket-knife  or  some  trifle  like  that.  He  had  but 
few  goods." 

"  Thank  you — 'tis  kindly  meant.  But  I  don't  want 
anything." 

"  As  you  please,"  he  said  and  went  into  the 
house. 

Elisabeth  considered  for  a  while  what  she  should 
do,  and  then  she  sought  the  home  of  Fanny  Cann. 
The  huge  bulk  of  the  old  woman  filled  her  cottage 
door  and  it  quivered  from  crown  to  heel  before  the 
vision  of  the  visitor. 

"  Good  powers — you !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Cann.  I  don't  know  how  you  feel  to 
me,  but  I  know  how  the  rest  do.  Can  you  put  me  up 
for  two  nights — or  even  three?  I've  got  a  good  few 
matters  to  arrange  before  I  go." 

"If  there's  one  creature  here  that  ought  to  cold 
shoulder    you,    I    am    that    creature,"    said    Fanny. 
'  Dragging  woman  in  the  dirt  like  this! " 

'  You  know  that's  all  nonsense,"  answered  the 
other.  "Dreadful  things  have  fallen  out;  but  those 
that  are  alive  have  got  to  go  on  living.  'Twas  no  act 
of  mine  that  slew  Reynold  Dunning,  and  if  I  could 
have  saved  him  I  should  have." 

"No  act  of  yours!  And  how  if  'tis  proved  that 
your  husband  did  it  ?  " 

Then  Fanny  bade  Elisabeth  enter  and  presently  ex- 
plained to  her  what  she  had  not  yet  learned. 


THE  BEACON  343 

"  Charlie's  locked  up,  and  'twill  take  him  all  his 
time  to  explain  that  terrible  night." 

"Is  Abraham  Mortimore  locked  up?':    she  asked. 

"  No.  They  went  for  him  too ;  but  he  proved  he 
couldn't  have  been  there.  Of  course  everybody  to 
Zeal  knows  Charlie  didn't  do  it  and  Mortimore  did; 
but  the  cunning  fox — Mortimore  I  mean — can  make 
facts  look  as  if  he  didn't." 

"  There's  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  who  did  it." 

"  Not  in  any  thinking  mind ;  but  the  wrong  men 
have  hung  before  and  may  again.  The  law  don't  take 
character  into  account.  It  ain't  got  no  time  to  do 
that.  You'll  have  worked  pretty  fair  all  around 
havoc,  Elisabeth  Trevail,  if  they  send  Charlie  after 
the  other." 

"  I've  told  the  truth  about  it." 

"  I  know  that,  else  I  wouldn't  ask  you  in  here. 
The  naked  truth  you  told;  and  knowing  you,  I  know 
you  did.  And  being  as  I  am,  large-minded  and  far- 
seeing,  I  understand  the  whole  story.  In  fact  it  has 
all  fallen  out  pretty  much  as  I  promised  it  would  when 
you  took  Charles.  You  done  what  you  thought  was 
right  and  I'm  not  going  to  cast  a  stone.  Stop  by  all 
means.  You've  had  your  dose  of  men  now  anyway 
— and  they've  had  their  dose  of  you." 

"  I'll  go  and  send  a  cart  from  the  village  for  my 
boxes,"  said  the  younger.  "  Then  I'll  come  back. 
Don't  you  put  yourself  about.  I'll  sleep  on  the  par- 
lour sofa." 

"  You  needn't  trouble  as  to  that,"  answered  Fanny. 
"  My  bed's  big  enough  for  us  both." 


CHAPTER  III 

FEW  subjects  were  discussed  in  Zeal  at  this  season 
but  the  murder  of  Reynold  Dunning,  and  it  hap- 
pened that  legal  presumption  and  local  knowledge  ar- 
rived at  different  conclusions  respecting  the  criminal. 

Both  Charles  Trevail  and  his  uncle  were  arrested 
on  suspicion;  but  the  latter  was  able  to  offer  proofs 
of  his  non-complicity  which  satisfied  the  court,  while 
the  former  had  not  been  able  to  do  so  and  was  com- 
mitted to  the  Assizes.  Zeal,  from  personal  knowl- 
edge of  the  man,  flouted  this  situation  and  the  general 
opinion  was  fairly  presented  night  after  night  in  the 
bar  of  Tom  Underbill's  public-house. 

"  You  can  sum  it  in  a  word,"  declared  Lucky 
Madders  for  the  benefit  of  a  stranger.  "  We  know 
the  men  as  men;  but  in  the  Law's  eyes  they  be  only 
equal  living  creatures,  with  like  power  to  evil.  And 
the  Law,  finding  that  they'd  both  got  a  big  crow  to 
pluck  with  the  chap  now  in  his  grave — the  Law  says 
'  Either  of  these  men,  or  both,  may  have  committed 
murder.'  But  us  here,  being  higher  than  the  Law  in 
knowledge  of  the  culprits,  know  that  one  man  wasn't 
built  to  take  a  human  life,  whereas  the  other  one  very 
well  might  do  it,  by  reason  of  his  character.  But  the 
Law,  having  no  regard  for  persons,  and  still  less  for 
the  inner  nature  of  men,  have  decided  that  Morti- 
more  couldn't  have  done  it  and  that  Trevail  might. 
Whereas  we  in  this  bar  know,  to  a  man,  that  'tis 
Trevail  couldn't  have  done  it  and  Mortimore  might. 
Do  I  put  the  case  fair  before  this  foreigner,  neigh- 
bours?" 

"  You're  fair  to  the  case,  but  not  fair  to  the  Law," 
declared  Mr.  Jope.     "The  case  is  as  you  say;  but 

344 


THE  BEACON  345 

you  mustn't  blame  the  Law  for  not  looking  under  the 
surface  of  facts.  Remember  how  much  it's  got  to  do. 
If  it  set  to  work  to  worm  out  the  inner  nature  of  each 
man  or  woman  as  come  to  be  haled  afore  it,  the  work 
would  never  be  done  and  for  every  ten  judges  we've 
got  now,  we'd  want  a  hundred.  As  'tis  the  delay  of 
the  Law  is  a  byword.  No,  we  can't  blame  the  Law, 
for  why?  On  the  face  of  things  the  Law  have  acted 
wisely.  For  how  stands  it?  The  man  is  slain,  and 
him  first  thought  to  have  done  it  is  known  to  have 
been  in  this  bar  drinking  gin  at  the  very  moment 
when,  so  far  as  we  can  tell,  Dunning  was  being  struck 
down.  There's  a  large  doubt  if  he  could  have  killed 
Dunning  and  come  here  after.  'Tis  true  none  know 
the  truth  but  himself,  since  he  lives  and  goes  his  ways 
alone.  But  what  the  Law  says  is  this,  '  the  man  must 
have  the  benefit  of  the  doubt ' ;  and,  taking  one  con- 
sideration with  another,  the  Law  holds,  so  far,  that 
Dunning  didn't  die  till  after  Mortimore  came  into 
this  bar.  But  in  the  case  of  Trevail,  the  time,  so  far 
as  they  can  judge,  fits  in  very  nice,  and  human 
nature  in  general  being  what  it  is,  the  Law  says  that 
he  played  a  very  common  part  and  killed  Reynold 
well  inside  the  ways  of  human  nature.  'Tis  a  most 
usual  thing  for  a  husband  to  do  what  Trevail  did,  and 
in  fact,  seeing  he  couldn't  say  nothing  clear  about  how 
he  spent  his  time  on  the  night  his  wife  left  him,  we 
might  agree  with  the  Law  that  the  case  is  black 
against  him.  But  that's  where  our  knowledge  of  the 
man  comes  in  and  the  Law,  though  a  great  student  of 
human  nature  in  the  gross,  can't  be  in  it  with  us  over 
this  particular  person,  because  we've  had  him  amongst 
us  since  he  was  a  child,  and  we  understand  his  nature 
and  know  that  he  could  no  more  hammer  in  a  man's 
head  bones  than  he  could  shift  Cosdon  Beacon. 
That's  what  we  know  and  the  Law  don't.  But  with 
t'other,  though  the  Law  be  satisfied  that  he  was  in 
this  bar  afore  Dunning  died,  we,  that  understand  him 


346  THE  BEACON 

and  his  rash  and  fierce  nature,  would  bet  a   week's 
wages  that  he's  the  man." 

"  To  say  it  without  prejudice.  You  must  add  the 
words  '  without  prejudice,'  declared  Neddy  Knap- 
man,  "  else  you  may  get  within  the  clutch  of  the  Law 
yourself.  I  know  a  bit  about  it,  for  I've  heard  the 
clerk  coach  the  justices  more'n  once,  when  I've  come 
up  afore  'em." 

"  Without  prejudice  certainly,"  continued  the  shoe- 
maker. "  There's  none  can  say,  whether  in  the  Law 
or  out,  that  I'm  a  man  of  prejudice.  I  leave  such 
small  things  to  small  natures.  Iron  Mortimore's  an 
Old  Testament  man  and  goeth  by  the  awful  fierce  rule 
of  the  Five  Books.  He  belongs  to  a  time  before 
Christ,  so  to  say,  and  it  ban't  his  way  when  smote  on 
one  cheek  to  offer  t'other." 

"Just  straight  Jehovah,"  said  Mr.  Madders. 
"  And  there's  others  like  him,  as  pin  their  faith  to  a 
broken  reed  in  my  opinion,  for,  without  the  New 
Testament,  none  can  be  saved;  and  the  ways  of  they 
Israelites,  if  followed  now,  would  land  a  man  in 
prison  in  this  world  and  in  hell  in  the  next.  I've 
figured  it  out  very  careful  since  poor  Dunning  was 
knocked  on  the  head,  and  I  know  I'm  right." 

"  'Tis  to  your  credit,  Lucky,  that  you  should  have 
thought   upon   such   a    deep   matter,"    answered    Mr. 
Jope.     "  But  you  name  hell  rather  too  lightly.     Other 
men,    other  manners,   as   the   saying   goes;   and    we 
mustn't  sweep  the  Old  Testament  heroes  into  the  bad 
place,   like  a   lot  of   rubbish   into   a  dust-bin.     You 
must  allow  a  very  great  deal  to  the  age,  and  you 
mustn't   forget  that  the  Almighty  took  a  close  and 
active   interest   in    His    chosen    folk.     He   knew   the 
world  wanted  rough  handling  in  them  days.     'Twas 
the  time  for  deeds,  not  words,  and  hell — being  in  a 
sense  a  new  contrivance  then — wasn't   in  the  work- 
ing order  it  is  now.     I  wouldn't  say  even  yet,  that  the 
Old  Testament  rule  if  followed  would  earn  hell  for  a 


THE  BEACON  347 

man.  Clink  in  this  world  certainly;  but  remember 
that  God's  ways  are  not  as  man's  ways  and  'tis  a  very 
parlous  opinion  to  state  that  what  David  did,  who 
was  a  man  after  God's  own  heart,  be  going  to  damn 
this  generation  if  followed  now.  Right  must  be 
right,  and  wrong  must  be  wrong." 

'  In  argument  I  can't  withstand  you,  Jack  Jope," 
admitted  the  lime  burner.  "  But  this  I  will  say :  under 
the  New  Testament,  David  stands  in  about  as  tight  a 
fix  as  any  man  in  the  Book;  and  if  he  was  God's 
chosen,  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  why  Mortimore 
shouldn't  be ;  and  yet  we've  all  agreed  that  my  master 
is  a  very  ungodly  man." 

"  Ungodly,  no,"  said  Jope ;  "  unchristian,  yes.  You 
might  say  that  Father  and  Son  differ  in  a  few  points 
of  morals — as  fathers  and  sons  differ  in  this  world 
for  that  matter.  The  Son  pleads  with  the  Father, 
and  gets  over  him  in  argument  no  doubt;  and  many 
hold  that  'twill  come  to  this  in  the  long  run:  that 
mercy  will  win  over  justice  and  that  not  a  single  soul 
will  be  lost." 

"  That's  to  make  hell  a  laughing-stock,"  declared 
Tom  Underhill  from  behind  the  bar. 

"  And  that's  exactly  what  Christ  did  do,"  answered 
Jope.  "  That's  the  great  fact  of  the  New  Testament 
surely." 

"If  'tis,  why  do  the  Creed  damn  all  unbelievers?  " 
asked  Mr.  Madders. 

"  As  a  matter  of  form,  my  dear.  The  Creed  very 
well  knows  there  won't  be  no  unbelievers  at  the  end, 
and  so  there  won't  be  anybody  to  damn.  In  fact 
when  hell's  once  empty,  the  world  will  end ;  and  not 
till  then.  No  doubt  'tis  far  off;  yet  a  sure  thing. 
You  may  say,  though  far  apart  there's  a  road  from 
hell  to  heaven  and  Christ  came  into  the  world  to  show 
it  and  save  the  lost." 

"  Now  you'm  going  beyond  history  and  sense,"  re- 
plied Lucky,  "  and  I'll  hear  you  no  more.     There's 


348  THE  BEACON 

hell  and  there's  heaven,  but  as  to  a  road  betwixt  them 
I'll  never  believe  it.  Anyway  Satan's  self  haven't 
found  it  if  there  be.  He  fell  out  of  one  into  t'other 
and,  since  he's  a  darned  sight  cleverer  than  anybody 
else,  he'd  be  the  very  first  to  nip  back  again  if  he 
could.  And  if  he  gets  back  again,  what's  the  good  of 
anything?  " 

A  laugh  greeted  Lucky's  question  and  it  had  not 
died  when  Mortimore  himself  entered. 

He  had  savagely  resented  incarceration  and  as 
savagely  rejoiced  in  the  death  of  his  enemy.  He  de- 
clared that  some  secret  foe  must  have  destroyed  Dun- 
ning; and  he  openly  asserted  that  his  nephew's  wife 
knew  more  about  it  than  she  pretended  to  know. 

They  returned  now  to  the  theme  and  Iron  Morti- 
more in  his  own  words  repeated  what  Jope  had  al- 
ready said. 

"  The  fools  are  blind.  If  I  had  my  way,  I'd  screw 
the  truth  out  of  that  woman  if  I  had  to  tear  her  fin- 
gers and  toes  off  afore  she'd  squeak.  She  knows  who 
'twas — so  like  as  not  she  helped — but  Charles — 
Charles — be  he  the  fashion  of  man  to  kill  anything?  " 

"  'Twill  go  hard  with  him  all  the  same,"  answered 
Underhill.  "  I've  had  some  speech  with  the  in- 
spector and  others,  and  they  say  that  Charles  can't 
prove  he  didn't  do  it,  and  the  only  question  is  whether 
the  Law  can  prove  he  did.  You  know  what  the 
police  are.  They've  got  to  make  their  living,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  and  to  catch  a  murderer  is  remembered 
in  their  favour.  If  there  was  anybody  else,  I'm  sure 
they'd  sooner  hang  him,  than  Charles — and  they'd 
have  sooner  hanged  you,  if  they  could,  as  you  know. 
But  you  was  one  too  many  for  them.  And  I'm  sure 
we  all  hope  that  Charles  will  be." 

"  Are  you  going  to  help  him  with  a  chap  to  fight 
the  Law  for  him  at  'sizes  ?  "  asked  Neddy  Knapman ; 
but  Mortimore  scoffed. 

What   fools  you  be!     Do'e  think  the  Law   will 


<( 


THE  BEACON  349 

string  him  up  without  a  jot  of  evidence?  'Twill  very 
soon  be  shown  as  he  had  no  hand  in  it.  'Tis  a  person 
unknown  laid  Dunning  out,  and  if  I  knowed  who 
'twas,  I'd  richly  reward  him." 

"  Be  you  going  to  get  the  quarry  again?" 

"  Yes,  I  be.  That  wretch  have  taken  his  silly  secret 
to  hell  with  him,  whatever  'twas,  and  there's  none  to 
come  between  me  and  the  quarry  no  more." 

"  You  always  said  'twould  be  death  for  the  man 
that  did;  and  you  was  right,  sure  enough,"  said 
Lucky. 

His  master  looked  darkly  at  him. 

"  Have  a  care,"  he  said.  "  My  ear  is  quick  to  catch 
two  meanings  when  people  stop  me  and  talk  to  me 
now." 

"  The  Law  have  ordained  that  you  had  no  hand  in 
it,  and  there's  an  end,"  declared  Mr.  Jope.  "  Libel's 
libel  and  the  Law  may  be  a  good  friend,  though  a  bad 
enemy.  No  doubt  you'd  put  in  a  summons  against 
any  man  who  named  your  name  in  this  matter  again ; 
and  since  the  Law's  white-washed  you,  'tis  very  cer- 
tain nobody  be  going  to  say  that  you  did  it." 

"  Whatever  they  may  think,"  added  Knapman. 

"  I  suppose  you  want  your  nephew  to  get  off,  how- 
ever, Mr.  Mortimore  ?  "  asked  Emma  Underbill  from 
behind  the  bar. 

"  Yes,  I  do — or  any  other  man  that  hadn't  done  it. 
I  want  him  to  get  off,  because  he's  innocent,  and  I'd 
want  him  to  get  off  a  deal  more  still  if  he  was  guilty." 

"  'Tis  all  or  none  in  these  cases,"  explained  the 
shoemaker.  "  A  man  up  for  murder  gets  free  again 
or  gets  hanged.  True  sometimes  they'll  split  the 
difference  and  give  him  penal  servitude  for  life,  which 
the  Law  seems  to  reckon  the  happy  medium  betwixt 
freedom  and  death.  And  in  this  example,  seeing 
'twas  Charlie's  wife  threw  him  over,  if  there's  a 
majority  of  married  men  in  the  jury,  they  may  take 
the  Law  in  their  own  hands  and  justify  it.     A  judge 


350  THE   BEACON 

is  powerless  afore  a  jury — mere  dust  in  their  hands; 
and  though  law-learned  judges  have  been  known  to 
writhe  under  a  jury's  commonsense  sometimes,  yet, 
life  or  death  lies  with  the  twelve,  not  the  one." 

"  Somehow  I  can't  see  Charlie  in  the  drop,"  mused 
Neddy  Knapman.  "  We've  all  of  us  met  men  very 
well  suited  to  it  in  our  time;  but  not  him." 

"  And  what  shall  you  do,  as  the  man's  uncle,  if  it 
comes  to  that  ?  "  asked  Underhill. 

Mortimore  grunted. 

"  Because  a  fool  axes  questions,  a  wise  man  ban't 
bound  to  answer  'em,"  he  said.  "  His  whole  life 
stands  afore  the  world  to  witness  this  was  no  heed  of 
his  doing.  There's  none  in  this  place  but  would  go 
bail  for  him — none  but  me.  I  won't;  but  that's  the 
man's  own  fault.  He  threw  me  over  afore  his  wife 
threw  him  over — I  don't  forget  that —  He  nought 
to  me  no  more." 

But  Mortimore  wavered  in  his  speech  and  less  than 
his  usual  ferocity  marked  it. 

It  was  a  strange  atmosphere  that  this  man  created 
now,  for  perhaps  none  in  his  presence  but  knew  with 
moral  certainty  that  he  was  the  murderer.  Indeed  a 
sort  of  unconscious  revulsion  spread  like  a  chill  mist 
among  them.  When  he  went  out,  they  agreed  among 
themselves  that  they  would  know  him  no  more. 

Tis  in  the  air  of  him — death,"  said  Mr.  Madders. 

You  smell  it  when  he's  up  along  side  of  you.  For 
my  part  I'll  think  twice  afore  I  work  under  him  again 
— if  they  put  away  his  nephew.  There's  a  creepy- 
crawly  something  in  him — his  eyes  make  me  go  goose- 
flesh  down  the  spine." 

"  And  he  knows  that  we  know,"  declared  the  subtle 
Knapman.  "  He  knows  that  we  see  through  it. 
Even  the  like  of  him  can't  take  human  life  and  go  on 
as  if  nothing  was  the  matter.  The  beast  in  him  be 
glad,  but  the  man  in  him  will  get  back  on  him  now. 
He  knows  that  he  has  damned  himself  and  he'll  suffer 


it 


THE  BEACON  351 

a  dreadful  lot  if  they  hang  Charlie.  For  my  part  I 
wish  we  were  in  America,  because  in  that  country 
they'd  take  Mortimore  and  march  him  under  the  first 
sizable  tree  and  hang  him.  Judge  Lynch  often  does 
right  and  serves  the  ends  of  justice." 

"  To  hang  up  the  man  would  be  a  resounding  feat," 
said  Lucky.  "  I  wonder  how  many  of  us  'twould  take 
to  do  it!" 

"  'Twill  be  easier  to  send  him  to  Coventry,"  de- 
cided Underhill ;  "  and  I'll  take  the  lead  and  tell  him 
next  time  he  comes  in  my  bar  that  I  don't  want  him 
here  no  more." 

They  decided  one  and  all  henceforth  to  treat  Morti- 
more as  though  he  did  not  exist. 

"  Us'll  pass  the  man,  just  as  though  he  was  naked 
air,"  said  Knapman.  "  Us'll  look  through  him  at 
the  hedge.  And  when  he  curses  and  raves,  we'll  pre- 
tend to  hear  nought  and  feel  nought." 

'  Have  a  care  lest  he  strike,  however,"  warned  Mr. 
Jope.  '  For  he  hits  cruel  hard  and  cruel  sudden,  and 
not  the  best  born  play-actor  amongst  us  could  pre- 
tend he  felt  nought,  if  he  was  down  on  his  stern  in  the 
high-road  with  a  broken  nose." 


CHAPTER  IV 

ELISABETH  obtained  permission  to  see  her  hus- 
band. He  was  awaiting  trial  and,  as  time  pro- 
ceeded, the  lot  of  the  innocent  in  like  case  fell  upon 
him.  From  an  attitude  of  impatient  indifference  at 
this  reverse  and  a  conviction  of  security  in  the  issue, 
he  lost  courage,  grew  anxious  and  began  to  feel 
despondent. 

At  first  it  was  not  so ;  at  first  the  minor  misfortune 
of  imprisonment  looked  small  beside  the  shattered 
life  that  faced  him  afterwards.  He  would  presently 
be  free  again;  but  to  what  purpose?  He  considered 
the  future,  with  his  wife  gone  for  ever  and  his  uncle 
turned  from  him.  The  latter  fact  troubled  him  little, 
and,  since  all  would  be  changed,  it  was  well  that  he 
should  begin  again.  He  imagined  himself  a  labourer 
working  for  hire;  and  he  was  very  sorry  for  himself, 
until  he  remembered  that  he  had  always  _  been  a 
labourer  working  for  hire.  He  considered  his  forth- 
coming freedom  and  wondered  what  his  wife  would 
do.     He  determined  to  share  his  savings  with  her. 

With  passage  of  time  and  beneath  the  withering 
ordeal  of  imprisonment  his  attitude  changed.  He 
forgave  Lizzie  everything  and  began  to  make  excuses 
for  her.  He  retraced  the  ground  already  travelled 
in  their  last  interview  and  he  told  himself  that  despair 
had  driven  her  from  him.  A  dozen  words  from  him 
before  Dunning's  end  must  have  changed  the  whole 
situation  between  them. 

When  his  wife  came  to  see  him  he  rejoiced  and 
even  told  her  that  the  past  must  be  buried  between 
them. 

"  I've  thought   it  through  and  through,"  he  said. 

352 


THE  BEACON  353 

"  I've  got  no  doubts  left.  I've  seen  the  past,  as 
clearly  as  ever  a  mortal  man  could  see  it,  and  I've 
walked  each  step  of  our  way.  Hand  in  hand  always, 
Lizzie;  but  'twas  you  that  was  for  ever  pulling  for- 
ward and  I  for  ever  dragging  back.  Dragging  is  the 
word.  I  was  a  sled  on  your  wheel.  You're  to  blame 
too,  Lizzie,  for  taking  other  counsel  so  willingly ;  but 
I'm  most  to  blame.  And  then,  when  you  had  won, 
and  I  started  to  go  to  uncle  and  throw  him  over,  I 
just  lacked  a  pinch  of  something  to  tell  you  before  I 
went,  but  decided,  instead,  to  tell  you  when  I  came 
back." 

"I  know,  I  know,  Charlie.  Leave  all  that  now. 
We  can't  change  it.  And  I  won't  think  of  it  any 
more.  I  haven't  come  about  the  past.  When  I 
think  of  it,  my  brain  shakes.  We  must  keep  it  out  of 
our  minds  for  ever,  if  we  want  to  be  useful  in  the 
world  any  more.  You've  forgiven  me,  and  that's  as 
big  a  thing  as  giving  up  your  uncle  was.  And  if  you 
hadn't,  I  doubt  I  couldn't  have  gone  on  living.  But 
you've  forgiven  me  and  that's  my  new  starting-point. 
And  you — how  is  it  now  ?  I  want  to  know  when  they 
are  going  to  set  you  free  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  they  won't.  It  all  looked  absurd — to 
think  anybody  who  knows  me  would  suppose  I  could 
kill  a  man;  but  now  it  don't  look  so  absurd  as  it  did 
apparently.  Anyway  my  lawyer  makes  a  devil  of  a 
fuss  about  it,  and  he's  got  so  serious  of  late  that  I 
begin  to  feel  the  same.  Being  chained  up  here  knocks 
my  nerve  to  pieces.  The  point  is  that  many  a  hus- 
band would  have  done  it  on  the  provocation.  In 
fact,  I  was  more  provoked  to  kill  Dunning  than  the 
old  man  was,  because  a  wife  be  a  mightier  matter 
than  a  quarry  whether  or  no.  But,  of  course,  taking 
into  account  the  parties  and  their  characters,  there's 
no  question  about  it.  Only  against  that,  Uncle  has 
proved,  so  clear  as  can  be,  that  he  must  have  been  at 
the  Oxenham  Arms  at  the  moment  when  Dunning 

33 


354  THE  BEACON 

was  being  killed;  while  I  can't  prove  nothing,  except 
that  I  was  out  of  my  house  roaming  about  God  knows 
where  at  that  hour.  To  the  best  of  my  memory  I 
never  went  further  than  the  stream  side  in  the  valley 
and  not  within  a  mile  of  Clannaboro',  but  the  Law — " 

"  They  can  prove  nothing." 

"  Nothing,  and  if  the  jury  brought  it  home  guilty, 
they  wouldn't  hang  me,  seeing  the  provocation.  So 
lawyer  says.  But  'tisn't  all  over  by  a  long  way.  I 
may  go  to  prison  for  it." 

She  considered  and  he  spoke  again. 

"And  if  I  do,  Lizzie?  Oh,  Lizzie,  if  I  do — for 
years  ?  " 

"  Don't  think  it.  'Twill  never  happen.  They 
must  find  out  'twas  Mortimore.  Everybody  knows 
that  he  did  it." 

"  You,  Lizzie — you.  I've  thought  deep  through 
these  cruel  days.  You  say  I  forgive  you ;  but  do  you 
forgive  me?  Yes,  I've  reached  the  point  of  asking 
that." 

"Don't,"  she  said.  "'Tis  unmanly  in  you. 
Don't  put  things  upside  down  so." 

"  There's  two  sides  to  all  questions.  And  I  say 
again  there's  two  sides  to  this.  Forgive  me  for  not 
telling  you  what  I  was  going  to  do.  Look  here, 
Lizzie,  in  a  word,  if  I  get  out  of  this  scot  free — will 
you,  will  you  come  back  to  me  ?  " 

"Would  you  take  me  back?"  she  asked  in  deep 
surprise. 

"  'Tis  fitting  and  reasonable  and  the  proper  thing 
every  way." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"He  never—?" 

She  sighed. 

"Poor  Charlie,"  she  said.  "Can  you  draw  the 
line  there?  And  you  such  a  Christian  as  you  are! 
No — not  that.     He  only  had  my  soul." 

"  Never — never !     None  can  lay  hands  on  another's 


THE  BEACON  355 

soul,  Lizzie.  We're  clay  and  fire — we're  clay  and 
fire,  I  say,  but  none  can  meddle  with  another's  fire." 

She  stared  at  his  simplicity. 

"  Poor  Charlie,"  she  said  again. 

"  Come  back  to  me !  Come  back  to  me !  You 
love  me;  you  do,  you  do,  Lizzie.  You  loved  me 
when  you  heard  I'd  flung  the  old  man  over." 

His  crude  attitude  showed  the  gulf  that  still 
yawned  between  them.  Never  before  had  she  so  felt 
the  childishness  of  the  man.  That  he  might  secretly 
want  her  back,  she  guessed ;  but  that  he  could  already 
cry  out  to  her  thus,  before  one  single  wound  had 
ceased  to  torture,  amazed  her. 

She  told  herself  that  she  could  never  go  back. 

"Don't  think  of  it;  don't  dream  of  it,"  she  said. 
"  You're  weak  and  run  down — as  well  you  may  be 
cooped  up  here.  If  you  could  take  me  back,  Charlie, 
I  should  feel  that,  after  all,  I  had  done  nothing  for 
you.  And  I  want  to  feel  that,  though  I've  wrecked 
myself  on  it,  I  haven't  wrecked  you.  'Tis  a  very 
strange  thing  that  I,  who  thought  myself  strong, 
should  have  been  served  like  this;  and  still  stranger 
that  you  I  thought  so  weak  should  be  so  strong.  But 
be  strong  still,  and  don't  feel  a  shadow  less  than  what 
you  ought  to  feel  against  me ;  don't  you  feel  a  shadow 
less  than  what  I  should  have  felt  against  you,  if  it 
had  been  the  other  way.  Don't  be  weaker  than  a 
woman  about  this." 

"  You  don't  love  me  no  more  then,"  he  said. 

"  More  than  I  ever  did,"  she  assured  him,  "  but 
we  can't  talk  of  such  things  any  more.  It  isn't 
seemly.  It's  common  and  unclean  and  not  worthy 
of  us.  I  feel  vile  even  to  say  I  care  for  you  now — 
vile  and  false  to  the  dead  and  the  living  both.  It 
chokes  up  my  soul  to  touch  the  matter." 

"  It's  all  one  to  me  then.  I  hope  they'll  hang  me. 
If  you  won't  come  back,  I'm  very  like  to  plead  guilty," 
he  said. 


356  THE   BEACON 

"  You're  broken  and  down,  and  well  you  may  be," 
she  answered.  "  But  look  at  the  real  cause  of  all 
your  suffering  and  don't  be  weak.  I  meant  well  by 
you;  but  I  did  evil — fearful  evil  I  suppose  it  was.  I 
know  it  now  and  you  must  keep  that  in  your  mind. 
The  children  flung  stones  and  the  women  at  a  door 
or  two  spat  in  the  road  when  I  went  down  Zeal  two 
days  ago.  Miss  Cann  says  that  I'd  have  been  whipped 
round  the  bounds  of  the  village  tied  to  a  cart-tail  in 
her  grandfather's  time.  I  deserve  that  in  her  opin- 
ion." 

"  If  I  was  out  of  this—" 

But  the  interview  ended  and  Elisabeth  learned  that 
she  must  depart. 

"  They'll  let  me  see  you  again  before  you  go  up  to 
Exeter,  Charlie,"  she  said.  "  And  don't  fret,  and 
don't  think  about  me.  Be  clean  every  way,  and  when 
you  get  free,  keep  free.  Don't  meddle  in  other  peo- 
ple's lives — mind  your  own  and  mend  your  own. 
That's  one  of  the  many  things  I  tried  to  teach  before 
I'd  learned  how  myself." 

She  rose  to  leave  him. 

"  Where  are  you  biding  for  the  minute  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  With  Miss  Cann." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  now?  " 

"  To  see  your  uncle.  The  thought's  just  flashed 
into  my  mind  to  do  it." 

"  For  God's  sake  don't !  'Tis  another  trouble 
added  to  the  rest  if  I'm  to  picture  you  facing  him." 

"  No  call  to  fear  for  me,"  she  answered  and  so  left 
him. 

They  had  spoken  in  whispers,  and  the  policeman 
present  at  the  interview  had  made  no  effort  to  over- 
hear them. 

Elisabeth  kept  her  word  and  visited  Abraham 
Mortimore  during  the  evening  of  that  day.  She  be- 
lieved that  some  element  of  danger  might  lurk  in  the 
action,  but  welcomed  it.     Danger  was  tonic  at  this 


THE  BEACON  357 

juncture  and  she  cared  little  for  the  promise  of  life. 
It  occurred  to  her  that  by  seeing  Mortimore  and 
speaking  fearlessly  with  him,  she  might  be  of  service 
to  her  husband.  Moreover  the  adventure  chimed 
with  her  own  inclination  and  mood. 

It  was  dark  when  she  reached  the  miser's  granite 
house.  She  knocked  and  he  opened  the  door  him- 
self. 

"  Good-evening,  Uncle  Mortimore,"  she  said. 
"  Can  you  spare  me  a  bit  of  your  time?  " 

They  had  not  met  for  many  weeks,  and  he  started 
violently  at  sound  of  her  voice,  put  his  face  close  to 
hers  and  peered  into  it. 

"  Time — time ! '  he  answered.  "  You've  played 
with  your  time  and  other  people's  time  enough,  you 
scarlet  wretch!  And  you  come  to  me — now!  Do 
you  want  me  to  shorten  your  time  ?  " 

"  That's  a  little  matter.  We're  past  all  that.  You 
never  frightened  me  much,  even  in  the  old  days,  and 
you  never  will  again." 

He  retreated  and  she  followed  him. 
;  You're  playing  with  fire  to  come  in  here,"  he  said. 

"  Very  like,  but  that's  all  one  to  me.  Do  you  think 
I'd  mind  if  you  treated  me  like  you  treated  Dunning? 
There's  no  need  for  lies  between  us.  You're  safe 
enough,  if  you  want  to  be  safe,  and  I  can't  harm  you 
if  I  would.  And  I've  no  wish  to.  I've  done  good 
and  harm  in  this  place — harm  to  you  and  the  man  you 
killed — good  to  Charlie." 

"  You  say  that — and  the  man's  neck  in  a  halter !  " 

"Your  work,  not  mine.  I've  lifted  him;  I've  torn 
him  away  from  you.     He'll  never  go  back  now." 

She  sat  down  in  the  kitchen.  There  was  a  single 
candle  burning  on  the  table  and  by  it  some  bread, 
some  dripping  on  a  plate,  and  a  Bible. 

"  I  didn't  count  on  this  visit — luckily  for  you — or 
I  might  have  been  ready  for  you — with  a  gaping  hole 
digged  in  the  garden,"  he  said. 


358  THE  BEACON 

"  Dig  it — I  can  wait,"  she  answered.  "  D'you  think 
I'd  have  come  into  your  den  if  I  minded  what  you 
might  do  to  me?  Just  let  me  go  over  my  life,  and 
then  you'll  see  how  I  stand.  I'm  here  defenceless 
and  care  not  if  I  never  go  again." 

She  hastily  sketched  her  days  at  Zeal  and  he  listened 
and  comprehended. 

"  My  work  in  life — the  one  thing  that  I  toiled  and 
laboured  for  after  I  married  Charlie — was  to  lift  him 
higher  and  make  him  see  that  your  way  was  bad.  I 
thought  I'd  failed;  I  thought  he'd  gone  to  you  from 
me  for  good  and  all;  and  so  I  left  him  for  good  and 
all.  Not  till  too  late  did  I  know  the  truth  of  what 
he'd  done.  And  then — see  how  it  struck,  like  a  two- 
edged  knife.  His  great  deed  of  throwing  you  over 
was  the  last  straw  on  your  back,  and,  little  thinking 
how  you'd  strike  both  your  enemies  at  one  blow,  you 
came  and  killed  Dunning." 

"If  I'd  known  you  was  there,  nought  on  God's 
earth  would  have  saved  you." 

"  But  if  I'd  known  you  was  there,  I  might  have 
saved  you  and  him  too,"  she  answered. 

Thus  he  explicitly  confessed  his  crime;  but  her 
heart  did  not  beat  the  faster  for  it.  She  was  only 
interested  to  find  that  she  angered  him  so  little.  He 
sat  scowling  upon  her;  but  he  threatened  no  vio- 
lence. 

"  'Twas  my  work  that  killed  poor  Reynold,  though 
I've  denied  it  to  myself,"  she  continued.  "  Your 
hand,  but  my  work.  D'you  see  how  much  I've  done 
in  this  place?  D'you  see  how  one  woman  in  earnest 
can  play  deadly  pranks  with  men,  if  there's  that  in 
her  to  influence  them  ?  All  my  work  at  bottom.  You 
wouldn't  have  killed  Dunning  if  I  hadn't  got  Charlie 
away  from  you.  You  had  to  strike  hard  and  heavy 
after  that,  and  you  were  sore  plagued  and  madder 
than  ever  before  and  you  went  there  and  then — " 

"  You  talk  of  killing  like  a  maiden  talks  of  mar- 


THE  BEACON  359 

riage,"  he  said.  "  Let  only  them  as  have  killed  talk 
about  killing." 

He  panted  and  walked  about  the  room. 

"There's  little  you  can  tell  me  I  don't  know,"  she 
answered.  "  While  I  was  mewed  in  his  bedroom,  and 
afore  I'd  had  time  to  look  round  at  the  nakedness  of 
it,  you'd  come  and  finished  him  and  gone  again.  The 
triumph  was  hardly  out  of  his  eyes  when  I  found  him. 
I'm  glad  for  his  sake.  The  hope  of  me  and 
the  winning  of  me  were  better  things — far  better 
things  for  him  than  I  myself  would  ever  have  been. 
I  never  was  very  sorry  for  him." 

"  Listen,"  he  said.  "  I  be  terrible  anxious  to  hear 
how  it  sounds  spoken  aloud.  You're  right;  I  wasn't 
with  the  man  two  minutes  all  told.  I  found  him 
alone  and  he  greeted  me  like  a  friend  instead  of  an 
enemy.  I'd  ridden  you  must  know — they  never 
thought  I  might  have  done  that.  But  I  had — hell  for 
leather  when  Charlie  left  me.  I  thought  of  you  first; 
then  I  fastened  on  him.  Terribly  friendly  he  was — 
as  victorious  men  can  afford  to  be — and  well  he  might 
be,  for  he'd  done  us  all  round  you  see — got  my  quarry 
and  Charlie's  wife  in  his  bedroom.  In  a  large  and 
easy  mood  after  such  a  day's  work.  I  must  have  a 
drink  with  him,  and  he  turned  and  went  to  the  cup- 
board. 'Twas  all  over  in  a  moment.  He  had  his 
back  against  me  and  his  arm  up  to  fetch  down  a  bot- 
tle. A  little  coal-hammer  I  took  with  me.  And  I 
hit  him  twice.  The  first  dropped  him  and  the  second 
went  through  his  head  bones.  I  heard  'em  scrunch, 
like  an  egg-shell.  Then  I  dragged  him  under  the 
table  and  was  gone.  I  guessed  his  people — they 
Vallances — couldn't  be  far  off,  for  I  didn't  know 
they  was  away;  and  though  when  I  went  to  kill  the 
man,  I  cared  not  a  jot  whether  the  whole  parish  saw 
me  do  it,  yet,  when  he  dropped  so  quick  and  secret 
and  none  knowed,  there  came  a  mighty  keen  hope 
that     none     ever     might     know.     The     quarry — the 


360  THE  BEACON 

quarry — the  quarry  I  tell  you  was  in  my  thoughts. 
'Twas  lost  and  found  again.  So  I  walked  my  pony 
over  the  grass  to  the  gate  and  crept  off  and  had  the 
clever  thought  to  go  in  a  field  of  mine  and  turn  him 
loose  there  and  then  walk  in  the  bar  of  the  Arms.  I 
was  drinking  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes  after  I  left 
Clannaboro',  and  you  didn't  come  down  and  find  the 
dead  man  for  an  hour.  That's  how  it  fell  out.  I'm 
safe  enough  you  see." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "You're  safer  than  your 
nephew  is." 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  How  d'you  feel  about  it?  "  she  asked.  "  Is  it  all 
they  say  to  kill  a  man  and  go  free?  Does  it  trouble 
you  or  not? " 

"  When  it  comes  over  me,  I  think  on  him," 
answered  Mortimore.  "  I  think  of  his  ways  and  what 
he  did  against  me  and  how  he  stung  and  tormented 
me  and  robbed  me  and  Charlie,  and  made  me  a  scorn 
among  the  people.  To  kill  a  man  is  a  great  thing  and 
not  a  good  thing;  but  the  instrument's  nought.  The 
hand  of  God  smote  him — I'll  cleave  to  that." 

Nevertheless  he  spoke  without  conviction  and  she 
saw  that  a  new  emotion  had  come  into  his  life. 

"  You're  frightened  of  what  you've  done,"  she  said. 
"  I  never  would  have  expected  that  to  have  happened 
to  you.  I'm  not  frightened,  but  I'm  haunted. 
What  is  it  that  frightens  you — that  they  will  find  it 
out?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  feared  for  Charlie." 

"  I've  come  about  that." 

"They  wouldn't  hang  him,  mind  you.  'Twas 
never  known,  lawyer  says,  that  a  man  was  hanged  on 
such  a  case.  And,  even  if  it  could  be  brought  nearer 
to  him — if  it  could  be  proved  out  of  the  mouths  of 
witnesses  that  he  done  it — even  then,  lawyer  say,  see- 
ing the  man  had  sloaked  his  wife  from  him — " 


THE  BEACON  861 

"  Suppose  Charlie  was  to  say  he'd  done  it  ?  " 

"  Say  he'd  done  it!  " 

"  He  threatened  to  do  that  this  morning.  I  was 
allowed  to  see  him  for  half  an  hour." 

"  Say  he'd  done  it !  Good  God,  he  don't  want  to 
be  shut  up  for  his  life!  " 

"  He's  like  you  and  me.  He's  not  very  sweet  on 
life  just  now.  D'you  know  the  size  of  his  heart?  I 
thought  I  did ;  but  even  I  didn't.  He  asked  me  to  go 
back  to  him  if  they  let  him  free!" 

"  Now  I  know  what  you  be  come  to  me  for  then." 

"  No,  you  don't.  I'm  not  as  bad  as  that.  I'll 
never  go  back  to  him.  I've  done  him  good  and  awful 
harm.     I'll  never  go  back." 

"And  so  he'll  say  he  killed  Dunning?  'Tis  your 
aim  and  hope  to  have  'em  both  in  the  pit  yet  ?  " 

"  Why  don't  you  finish  what  you've  begun  and  kill 
me  too  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I'll  help  you.  Then  Charlie's 
free  every  way." 

"  Kill  yourself,"  he  said.  "  You've  taught  us  all  a 
hell  of  a  lot ;  now  larn  a  bit.  You  think  you've  done 
him  good  and  lifted  him  up.  If  you've  done  him 
good,  God  defend  them  that  suffer  evil  from  you. 
Your  work's  finished  here,  and  if  you  want  to  round 
it  and  complete  the  job,  go  out  of  it.  Drown  your- 
self, poison  yourself,  cut  your  throat,  jump  in  my 
quarry.  He  wants  you  back;  but  you'd  gone  to 
t'other,  and  even  you  have  your  pride,  it  seems,  and 
won't  sink  to  slink  back  to  the  man  you've  horned. 
But  so  long  as  you're  alive  the  drivelling  fool  will 
hanker  for  you  and  you'll  go  on  wrecking  him.  So 
die  and  be  damned,  and  then,  once  you're  under- 
ground, he  may  be  a  man  yet." 

She  looked  at  him  without  speaking  and  he 
lifted  the  candle  and  peered  searchingly  into  her 
face. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said ;  "  it's  marked  you  too,  I  see. 
You  be  white  as  curds  and  your  eyes  look  out  of 


362  THE  BEACON 

black  rings.  You're  done  for — you'll  never  be  fair 
to  see  again.  You  round  the  job  and  set  the  man 
free." 

"  D'you  think  I  haven't  thought  of  it?  " 

"  Bah !  Thought  of  it !  You,  with  your  boasted 
pluck  and  strength — stronger  and  wiser  than  all  us 
men  together — can't  do  that.  Your  blasted  life  be 
done — you've  sucked  two  men  dry  and  now — come 
to  me  to  kill  you.  Practise  what  you've  drove  two 
men  mad  by  preaching.  You've  done  your  work  on 
him.  Now  get  out  of  it  and  leave  him  free  to  find 
another!  " 

"  If  that  was  all  he  had  to  find,"  she  said. 

"  Kill  yourself — kill  yourself — kill  yourself,"  he  re- 
peated. "Be  you  a  feared?  I  ban't.  If  I  was  you 
I'd  knife  myself  so  soon  as  a  pig.  'Tis  made  too 
much  of  I  tell  you.  When  Dunning  dropped,  he  was 
grinning;  and  grinning  he  died.  Grinning  he  lived 
and  grinning  he  died." 

Elisabeth  rose  and  left  him  then.  She  walked  to 
the  door  and  he  followed  her. 

The  candle  that  he  carried  threw  a  shadow,  and 
looking  round  suddenly  she  found  his  arm  lifted  above 
her  head. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  how  easy  it  would  be ;  but 
easier  for  you  than  for  me." 

She  went  out.  The  road  was  empty  and  the  hour 
was  late. 

"  Grinning  he  lived — grinning  he  died ! ':  shouted 
Mortimore  loudly  into  the  silence  after  her. 

She  returned  to  the  cottage  of  Miss  Cann  but  said 
nothing  of  what  had  passed,  or  where  she  had  been. 
New  channels  of  thought  opened  for  her.  She  per- 
ceived that  the  thing  he  had  done  had  changed  Abra- 
ham Mortimore,  and  she  marvelled.  As  soon  would 
she  have  expected  a  wild  beast  to  mourn  slaughter. 
Some  spark  of  humanity,  mothered  by  that  close  kin- 


THE   BEACON  863 

ship  with  a  far-off  ancestry,  was  struggling  to  the  sur- 
face of  him.  What  might  result  therefrom  she  could 
not  tell.  She  was  chiefly  concerned  with  a  thing  more 
characteristic  of  him:  his  advice  to  her. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  upheaval  in  the  mind  of  Abraham  Morti- 
more  begat  strange  issues  and  from  a  small  be- 
ginning broke  up  the  deep  springs  of  his  nature  and 
laid  the  fabric  waste.  He  began  to  endure  pain  from 
the  course  of  events.  His  constricted  mind  was  in  la- 
bour and  suffered  terrific  transitions.  Ever  in  ex- 
tremes, his  ferocity  turned  now  upon  himself.  He 
hated  his  days  in  one  breath  and  in  the  next,  from  a 
boundless  vitality,  spurned  the  thought  of  ending 
them ;  with  frantic  desire  at  one  moment  he  longed 
for  his  nephew  to  be  free;  and  in  the  next,  he  cared 
not  what  might  become  of  him.  But  from  this 
matter  there  emerged  a  purpose  and  a  rooted  con- 
sciousness that  life  had  now  given  him  all  that  was 
possible.  He  reviewed  his  days,  and  retraced  them 
through  the  misty  channels  of  his  memory,  as  a  beast 
might  be  supposed  dimly  to  glimpse  the  past.  What 
more  could  he  win  out  of  living?  He  was  old;  he 
had  conquered  and  slain  his  enemy.  The  quarry  was 
to  be  his  again.  He  missed  Dunning  and  that  keen 
edge  the  other  had  put  to  his  life.  No  dread  goaded 
him;  he  had  almost  welcomed  dread  as  an  emotion 
mordant  and  acute.  For  himself  he  cared  nothing, 
and  the  ease  with  which  he  had  accomplished  his 
purpose  and  continued  to  go  free  in  the  heart  of  a 
suspecting  community  made  him  forget  how  differ- 
ently the  crime  and  its  sequel  might  have  fallen  out. 
He  felt  a  large  contempt  for  his  fellow  man.  His 
immature  mind  had  been  lit  up  by  murder.  The  deed 
exercised  a  distinct  functional  effect  and  increased  the 
clearness  of  Mortimore's  intellect. 

He    was    largely    occupied    with    the    problem    of 

364 


THE  BEACON  365 

Charles  Trevail  and  once  even  thought  to  see  his 
nephew;  but  he  changed  his  purpose,  for  deep  un- 
easiness marked  him  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  law. 

He  despised  it,  but  terribly  he  dreaded  it.  The 
instinct,  however,  was  mechanical  and  built  upon  his 
experience  in  the  far  past.  For  himself  at  the  present 
juncture,  he  could  not  be  said  to  feel  any  fear.  But 
his  alarm  for  Trevail  increased,  and  he  believed  that 
a  futile  law  might  presently  throw  the  punishment  on 
his  nephew's  shoulders.  He  still  hated  and  cared  for 
Trevail  in  a  gust.  He  could  not  separate  the  emo- 
tions. Dislike  conquered  when  he  remembered  how 
Charles  had  abandoned  him  at  his  wife's  behest;  then 
he  looked  back  and  remembered  the  younger  man's 
long  years  of  faithful  service.  The  problem  of 
Charles  bewildered  him,  and  maddened  him.  And  it 
was  urgent,  because  the  trial  approached.  Had  it 
been  possible  easily  to  save  Charles  he  would  have 
done  so;  but  time  progressed;  other  matters  cleared 
themselves;  his  life,  as  a  tale  recorded,  resolved  into 
a  jejune  and  flat  experience — into  an  anti-climax  that 
promised  no  change  for  the  better,  no  further  fla- 
vours, and  no  more  large  events.  To  be  hanged,  in- 
deed, was  in  his  power ;  but  he  might  do  that  for  him- 
self without  help  of  man. 

Seen  from  one  standpoint  it  appeared  no  longer 
difficult  to  save  Trevail.  Yet  did  he  desire  to  do  so? 
Finally  he  told  himself  that  he  did  not.  Though  the 
line  that  he  began  to  consider  would  tend  to  his 
nephew's  salvation,  the  result  of  his  actions  on  other 
people  ceased  to  interest  him  and  he  cared  no  more 
what  might  befall  Trevail.  He  was  indifferent  as 
to  any  issue.  The  personal  interest  of  the  thing  he 
imagined  now  quite  shut  from  his  mind  every  ancil- 
lary consequence. 

He  began  to  occupy  himself  with  his  possessions 
and,  for  a  time,  thought  upon  them  weakened  his 
purpose.     He  linked  himself  up  with  the  world  again, 


366  THE  BEACON 

saw  Trevail's  lawyer  and  considered  Trevail's  wife. 
He  heartily  wished  that  Elisabeth  would  destroy 
herself  and  wondered  whether  the  matter  was  in  her 
mind.  Then  he  did  what  before  he  had  not  done: 
he  looked  all  round  himself  and  strove  to  see  how  the 
thing  that  he  thought  to  do  would  affect  his  world; 
he  endeavoured  to  picture,  to  the  last  ripple,  the  wave 
cast  up  by  his  contemplated  plunge.  But  his  intellect 
lacked  any  synthetic  power  and  he  could  not  proceed 
with  the  investigation.  He  devised  how  to  leave  his 
money  away  from  Charles,  yet  knew  none  who  might 
better  possess  it.  Then  he  was  inspired  to  take  it 
with  him.  The  possibility  of  this,  once  proved,  gave 
him  large  satisfaction.  There  lacked  time  to  realise 
all  his  goods;  but  much  wealth  might  be  banished 
from  the  earth  for  ever  when  he  left  it.  This  discov- 
ery accelerated  his  movements.  He  collected  a  large 
sum  of  money  under  his  roof  in  cash.  The  accumu- 
lations of  years  he  sold  and  emptied  the  chamber  of 
his  house  where  he  had  kept  them.  Suspicions  were 
rife  that  he  was  about  to  run  from  Zeal  and  the  folk 
guessed  that  he  would  disappear  and  be  seen  and  heard 
of  no  more. 

Mortimore  received  a  summons  to  attend  the 
Assizes  and  bear  witness  of  his  nephew's  visit  to  him 
on  the  night  of  the  murder.  He  inquired  concerning 
the  train  and  learned  that  he  must  start  for  Exeter 
at  an  early  hour.  He  forgot  nothing  and  bargained 
over  the  sale  of  his  possessions  as  of  old.  He 
smarted,  too,  by  instinct  when  the  prices  were  lower 
than  he  had  hoped.  His  last  rage  for  money  proved 
keen  and  bitter,  because  this  whim :  to  take  all  the  cash 
possible  out  of  the  world  with  him,  grew  by  what  it 
fed  on.  He  turned  his  money  into  notes,  and  one 
night,  sitting  alone,  he  burned  fifty  pounds — to  taste 
the  emotion  engendered. 

He  liked  it  not,  and  though  his  life  was  now  timed 


THE  BEACON  367 

to  endure  but  a  week  longer,  he  kept  his  wealth  to 
the  end  and  ordained  that  it  should  share  his  own 
fate. 

He  went  fishing  one  day  and  then  remembered  that 
his  boat  was  of  value.  Therefore  he  sold  this 
also,  and  a  man,  who  owned  a  pond  one  mile  distant, 
was  glad  to  purchase  it.  This  sale,  for  private  rea- 
sons, caused  Mortimore  a  measure  of  satisfaction 
which  the  actual  price  of  the  punt  by  no  means  rep- 
resented. A  day  was  fixed  and,  in  consideration  of 
the  sum  of  two  pounds,  Mortimore  undertook  the 
transit  of  the  punt  to  its  destination. 

There  came  a  night  when  Lucky  Madders  and  the 
rest  of  the  men  and  boys  who  worked  at  the  quarry, 
were  bidden  to  call  at  the  house  of  their  master. 

Greatly  wondering  what  he  might  have  to  say  to 
them  and  guessing  gloomily  that  he  proposed  to  lower 
their  wages,  they  came.  They  found  him  in  his 
kitchen  clad  in  his  Sunday  suit.  He  dismissed  them 
and  gave  each  a  month's  wages.  He  explained  that 
he  was  going  to  the  Assizes  on  the  following  morning 
and  should  stop  at  Exeter  until  Trevail's  fate  was 
determined.  He  added  that  his  future  movements 
were  uncertain  and  would  depend  on  the  result  of  the 
trial.  Then  he  bade  all  depart  save  Madders  and 
one  other. 

To  their  ears  he  told  another  story:  the  true  one. 
In  a  hundred  sledge-hammer  words  he  explained  how 
he  had  killed  Reynold  Dunning;  how  he  had  ridden 
swiftly  away  from  Clannaboro'  the  moment  after- 
wards; how,  owing  to  the  fact  that  Elisabeth  Trevail 
did  not  discover  the  dead  until  an  hour  later  than  his 
departure,  it  was  within  his  power  apparently  to  prove 
an  explicit  alibi. 

"  You'll  remember  that  I  came  in  the  bar  of  the 
1  Arms '  and  drank  and  raged  against  my  nephew," 
he  said. 


368  THE  BEACON 

Having  spoken  and  made  all  clear,  he  bade  Mad- 
ders proclaim  it  and  fetch  officers  to  arrest  him. 

"  They'll  quickly  come,"  he  declared.  "  All  men 
know  that  I  killed  Dunning,  though  none  can  prove 
it  but  me.  Now  begone  and  tell  them  what  you've 
heard  and  lead  'em  here." 

They  left  him  and  after  lengthy  speech  between 
themselves  did  as  he  bade  them.  His  companion  sup- 
posed that  Mortimore  would  await  the  police;  Mr. 
Madders  did  not. 

"  Mortimore  chose  us  two  old  blids,"  he  said,  "  be- 
cause he  knew  that  we  couldn't  grapple  with  him 
and  keep  his  hands  off  himself;  but  that's  his  mean- 
ing. He's  going  out  of  it  and  Charlie  Trevail  will  be 
cleared.  You  mark  me,  he'll  be  a  deader  long  afore 
the  constables  get  to  his  house." 

Twenty  minutes  later  it  was  attempted  to  arrest 
Abraham  Mortimore;  but  his  place  proved  empty 
and,  in  the  darkness  of  night,  none  could  tell  or  guess 
which  way  he  had  gone. 

A  policeman  knew  something  of  his  affairs. 

"  'Twas  on  the  cards  that  he  might  have  been  took 
again  to-morrow  at  Exeter,"  he  said.  "  Us  have 
been  watching  very  close  to  see  what  he  meant  to  do. 
He's  sold  everything  that  he  could  sell — even  to  this 
house.  He  let  things  go  at  any  prices  to  be  rid  of 
'em.  He's  got  very  near  three  thousand  pounds  of 
money  in  his  pocket  at  this  moment  no  doubt." 

"  Maybe  he'll  turn  up  in  Exeter  as  ordained,"  sug- 
gested Lucky.  "  Such  a  fantastic  man  as  him  may 
have  planned  to  rise  up  in  court  and  tell  the  judge 
and  all — just  for  the  pleasure  of  making  a  flare  up." 

"  Not  him,"  declared  the  inspector  of  police.  "If 
he'd  meant  to  do  that,  he  wouldn't  have  told  you  and 
this  here  man  about  it.  'Twill  take  us  all  our  time  to 
set  eyes  on  him  again." 

They  talked  into  the  night  but  instituted  no  search 
until  the  morrow. 


THE  BEACON  369 

And  Mortimore  meanwhile  had  departed  towards 
North  Combe  and  the  quarry.  The  night  was  dark, 
but  he  moved  swiftly  with  the  gait  of  one  well  used  to 
night.  He  hastened  under  the  wood  to  the  little  tarn 
and  approached  his  punt.  With  the  merciful  swift- 
ness of  an  executioner,  he  carried  out  the  details  for 
death,  and  his  expedition  was  extreme.  He  cast  off 
the  chain,  loaded  the  boat  with  some  heavy  stones, 
until  it  sank  gunwale  deep  in  the  still  water,  and  then 
paddled  slowly  to  a  familiar  spot  in  the  middle  of  the 
lake.  Now  he  took  the  chain  that  usually  moored  his 
craft  and  bound  it  tightly  about  his  own  body,  so 
that  he  should  be  firmly  fastened  to  the  bottom  of  the 
punt.  One  arm  alone  remained  free  and  seizing  his 
oar,  he  smote  the  planking  under  him  and  drove  it  in. 

His  last  act  was  to  feel  for  his  money,  which  he  had 
sewn  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

Thus  did  Abraham  Mortimore  pass  after  his  enemy 
and  their  recalcitrant  forces  destroy  one  another. 

*4 


CHAPTER  VI 

CHARLES  TREVAIL  spoke  with  Fanny  Cann, 
and  he  desired  one  thing  and  she  advised  another. 
But  the  question  between  them  depended  for  the  an- 
swer upon  a  third  person  and  she  had  determined 
what  to  do. 

When  Trevail  was  freed,  he  came  instantly  to  his 
home  and  desired  to  see  his  wife;  but  she  would  not 
see  him.  She  remained  for  one  more  day  at  Miss 
Cann's  cottage,  and  then  she  left  the  place  and  pro- 
posed never  more  to  return.  Trevail  was  making  a 
final  struggle  for  happiness,  like  a  drowning  man 
clutching  at  a  straw.  Though  free  again,  his  freedom 
seemed  of  little  worth  and  life  threatened  to  submerge 
him  for  ever  in  a  chill  twilight. 

He  spoke  passionately  to  the  old  woman. 

"  Why,  why  won't  she  come  back  ?  I've  done  all 
I  could  do.     I've—" 

"  Ban't  what  you've  done,  Charlie ;  'tis  what  she's 
done.  You  must  at  least  give  her  credit  for  common 
decency.  Things  such  as  these  can't  happen  and  be 
forgot,  like  yesterday's  shower  of  rain." 

"  That's  all  over  and  I've  a  perfect  right  to  forget 
if  I  choose.  We  have  our  lives  all  smoothed  out 
clear  ahead.  Ban't  I  never  to  know  what  happiness 
means  after  working  so  terrible  hard  for  it?  Didn't 
I  fairly  earn  it?  She  knows  that  well  enough.  I'm 
broken,  and  I'm  broken  in;  I'm  changed;  I'm  good 
enough  for  her  now ;  and  I  know  that  if  I'd  done  what 
I  did  do  one  day  sooner,  she'd  never  have  left  me. 
Therefore  why  should  she  leave  me  now?  Am  I  to 
lose  all — after  I  thought  to  have  won  all?  Am  I  a 
dumb  beast,  to  be  tormented  and  over-driven  till  I 

370 


THE  BEACON  371 

drop?  Haven't  I  had  enough?  I'm  changed  to  the 
very  roots;  tell  her  that.  My  desires  for  simple  joy 
and  lazy  leisure  be  dead.  I  know  they  were  natural 
to  me;  but  they're  dead  now.  Everything  is  dead 
but  what  she  wants  to  live.  I'll  be  a  tireless  worker 
and  hunger  for  nought  else  but  work.  I'll  fling  over 
the  joy  of  life,  like  dross,  for  her  sake — everything — 
everything  for  her  sake.  She's  moulded  me  into  her 
very  pattern  of  man,  and  if  she  leaves  me  now  is  it 
fair,  is  it  just?  " 

"  Don't  you  take  on,  but  list  to  me.  Here's  a  mat- 
ter for  time  to  work  at." 

"If  she  goes,  she'll  never  come  back — I  know  that 
well  enough." 

"Not  here;  she'll  never  come  back  in  sight  of 
Cosdon  Beacon,  and  who  shall  blame  her?  But  'tis 
for  you  to  plot  and  plan,  not  me.  She's  broken  down 
in  body  and  soul,  and  she  must  get  away  alone  to 
cleanse  herself.  That  was  her  own  word.  She  came 
pretty  near  finishing  herself,  Charlie.  The  old  man, 
under  water  now,  advised  her  to  do  it,  and  if  he 
hadn't,  'tis  possible  I  do  believe  that  she  might  have. 
Don't  you  pester  her  for  the  moment.  Let  her  go 
right  away  and  work — work  her  fingers  to  the  bone. 
She'll  recover ;  but  she  won't  recover  in  sight  or  sound 
of  you.  Let  her  go  far  ways  off,  and  learn,  and  get 
humble  and  teachable,  which  she  never  has  been  yet ; 
and  then  may  be,  once  the  habit  of  humble  learning 
comes  upon  her,  she'll  change  and  in  time  to  come 
learn  even  from  you." 

"  She'll  never  come  back  I  tell  you — not  if  once  she 
goes." 

"Who  can  tell?  But  go  she  will,  and  no  sane 
man  or  woman  would  wish  to  keep  her.  Let  her  go 
without  any  fuss.  She's  got  a  great  sense  of  what's 
fitting.  'Tis  a  sense  most  women  have  and  most  men 
have  not.  She  couldn't  come  back  to  you  now ;  and 
God  knows  'tis  upsetting  my  own  opinions  and  eating 


372  THE  BEACON 

my  own  words  even  to  think  or  hope  she  ever  will  do 
so.  But,  all  the  same,  the  case  being  as  it  is  and  you 
being  what  you  are,  I  believe  and  hope  as  you'll  come 
together  again.  For  you  are  you  and  Lizzie  is  Lizzie, 
and  so  it  may  happen." 

"  Then  help  me  to  make  it." 

"  Your  only  chance — your  only  chance  is  to  let  her 
go  free,  without  any  more  attempts  to  stop  her,  or 
see  her.  She's  ill,  but  'tis  an  illness  that  will  soon 
mend  once  she's  out  of  sight  of  this  place.  Let  her 
get  away  and  follow  her  bent,  while  you  look  round 
and  sell  North  Combe  and  take  up  work  out  of  sight 
of  here.  You'll  do  well  to  get  off  Dartmoor  alto- 
gether, I  reckon,  for  your  own  sake  as  well  as  hers. 
She's  had  her  dose  of  that.  Try  the  in-country  and 
let  her  bide  alone  for  a  full  year — a  full  year,  Charlie 
— and  then  see  how  life  looks  to  her  and  you." 

"  She'll  be  gone  and  I  shall  never  know  where  to 
find  her  again." 

"  You  needn't  fear  that.  I  know  what  she  means 
to  do.  I  made  her  tell  me.  She's  got  the  old  sort 
of  work  again  in  London.  And  leave  her  to  it.  She 
said  yester-night  that  she'd  done  what  she  wanted  to 
do  for  you ;  but  she  didn't  feel  just  then  the  result  of 
it;  she  didn't  think  what  it  would  be  if  you  did  what 
you  wanted  to  do  for  her.  Such  twisted  tangles  be- 
tween a  man  and  a  woman  be  beyond  me  of  course — 
'tis  like  a  pink  dodder  choked  in  a  fuzz  bush  to  see 
most  women's  lives  messed  up  by  going  to  live  with  a 
man.  But  as  to  your  case  I  won't  say  that  exactly. 
You  know  how  much  I've  thought  upon  it,  and  if  she's 
the  dodder  and  you're  the  fuzz,  she  haven't  choked 
you  to  death  anyway  and  you  haven't  pricked  her  to 
death.  She've  got  to  know  your  uses  now ;  but  she've 
also  got  to  know  what  hard  labour  tastes  like  after  the 
easy  days  at  North  Combe.  She'll  go  at  it  like  a 
demon  and  try  to  kill  herself  with  work  at  first.  She's 
in  a  cruel,  remorseful  sort  of  state  and  haven't  got  no 


THE  BEACON  373 

opinions  and  no  hopes  left.  She  wants  ideas  now, 
not  opinions,  and  she'll  never  judge  man  nor  mouse 
again.  That's  all  to  the  good;  and  the  next  thing  is 
what  will  happen  to  her  mind  when  she  begins  to  look 
back.  Well,  she'll  see  a  live  man  and  a  dead  one  for 
sartain,  and  she'll  measure  up  what  good  and  ill  she's 
got  and  given.  And  she'll  begin  to  see  what  you  are 
and  what — well,  I  ban't  going  to  praise  any  man  to 
his  face — least  of  all  you;  but  you've  got  your  qual- 
ities; and  such  as  they  are,  she'll  miss  'em.  I  say  to 
you,  '  If  you  want  her  back,  then  let  her  go;  and  the 
farther  she  goes  away  and  the  less  she  hears  or  sees  of 
you,  the  more  likely  she'll  want  to  come  closer  again 
and  to  see  and  hear  once  more.'  " 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  " 

"  Up  over — taking  leave  of  it." 

He  started  to  climb  the  hill. 

"  Don't  you  do  that !  "  she  cried  out ;  but  he  only 
pushed  on.  He  knew  that  he  was  wrong;  yet  no 
power,  short  of  physical,  could  then  have  prevented 
the  man  from  endeavouring  to  reach  his  wife. 

"Fool!"  shouted  Miss  Cann  after  him;  and  in 
anger  and  impatience  she  went  into  her  house  and 
banged  the  door. 

Trevail  tramped  the  pathless  places  and  sought  for 
Lizzie  until  it  grew  dark.  He  did  not  see  her;  but 
she  saw  him  far  off  and  hid  from  him.  She  did  not 
return  to  Fanny  before  the  night  had  fallen,  nor  did 
she  enter  the  house  until  satisfied  that  her  husband 
was  not  in  it. 

The  women  talked  long  together,  but  Miss  Cann 
hid  her  mind  and  did  not  speak  of  the  things  that  had 
passed  between  her  and  Trevail. 

"  'Tis  understood,"  she  said,  "  that  you  let  me 
know  how  you  are  faring  and  how  life  goes  on  in 
general.  You've  had  your  dose  of  men  and  I  don't 
fear  you'll  ever  find  any  more  use  for  them.  And, 
as  for  Charles,  you'll  excuse  me  \<<v  naming  him,  he's 


374  THE  BEACON 

going  to  be  as  busy  as  a  bee  leaving  Zeal  and  seeking 
a  new  place  out  of  sight  of  Dartmoor." 

"  We  can  never  forget." 

"  You  will.  He  won't.  You  know  the  unchange- 
ableness  of  the  silly  man.  A  great  power  of  faithful- 
ness without  a  doubt.  Worth  a  thousand  of  you  he 
was  in  that  matter.  However,  we  must  help  him  to 
forget  you  since  'tis  your  wish.  We  want  to  pleasure 
you,  Elisabeth.  Some  of  us  still  care  about  you 
above  a  bit  and  be  sorry  for  the  cruel  mess  your 
nature  has  thrust  you  and  others  into." 

"  Tell  him  that  my  last  word  was  that  I  hope  he 
would  fight  and  fight  with  himself  and  not  forgive 
me — never,  never.     He  oughtn't  to  if  he's  a  man." 

"  I'll  tell  him.  But  the  way  to  make  him  hate  you 
properly,  if  you  want  that,  would  be  to  stop  with  him. 
You're  doing  the  very  thing  to  make  a  man  forgive 
you — especially  one  like  him.  Finish  up  your  bread 
and  milk  and  be  off  to  your  bed." 


CHAPTER  VII 

ELISABETH  TREVAIL  sat  in  a  train  that 
hastened  from  Okehampton  to  London.  She 
wore  black  and  her  face  was  very  pale.  By  her  nerv- 
ous motions  and  unrest  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  suf- 
fered mental  excitation.  The  day  was  dark  and  rain 
swept  the  window  of  the  carriage. 

As  the  train  approached  Yeoford,  she  rose,  begged 
pardon  of  a  woman  who  sat  beside  the  door,  bent  over 
her,  lowered  the  glass  and  leant  out. 

A  man  spoke. 

"Be  careful,"  he  said;  "we're  not  near  the  station 
yet." 

But  she  did  not  hear  him.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  at 
edge  of  earth,  where  a  slate-grey  mound,  washed  by 
leagues  of  wet  air,  rose — small  and  dim — beyond  the 
hills  and  dales.  It  persisted  in  her  sight  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  then  patches  and  ribbons  of  steam  swept  past 
the  train  and  the  vision  vanished. 

Elisabeth  drew  up  the  window  and  returned  to  her 
place. 


THE  END 


375 


THE  RED  LANTERN 

BY 

EDITH   WHERRY 

Ckth  12mo  $1.30  net  Pestafe,  12  cents 

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siderable psychological  and  historical  value."     — Springfield  Republican. 

"A  lively  and  quick  story  of  the  Boxer  uprising  and  the  struggles 
of  a  Eurasian  woman. ' '  — Ne<w  York  Sun. 

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the  end  is  dramatically  fitting."  — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"The  story  is  well  handled  in  plot,  characterization  and  atmos- 
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the  life  and  times,  this  book  has  no  peer." 

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while."  — The  Bookman. 

"There  is  a  remarkable  power  in  the  description  of  scenes  con- 
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well  as  for  interest  of  subject  matter."  — Newark  Evening  News. 


John  Lane  Company   ™™RRKS 


WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 
The  Usurper 

"  Contains  the  hall-mark  of  genius  itself.  The  plot  is  masterly  in 
conception,  the  descriptions  are  all  vivid  flashes  from  a  brilliant 
pen.  It  is  impossible  to  read  and  not  marvel  at  the  skilled  work- 
manship and  the  constant  dramatic  intensity  of  the  incident,  situ- 
ations and  climax." —  The  Boston  Herald 

Derelicts 

*  Mr.  Locke  tells  his  story  in  a  very  true,  a  very  moving,  and  a 
very  noble  book.  If  any  one  can  read  the  last  chapter  with  dry 
•yes  we  shall  be  surprised.  '  Derelicts '  is  an  impressive,  an  im- 
portant book.  Yvonne  is  a  creation  that  any  artist  might  be  proud 
of."— 7**  Daily  Chronic  It. 

Idols 

"One  of  the  very  few  distinguished  novels  of  this  present  book 
season." — The  Daily  Mail. 

•A  brilliantly  written  and  eminently  readable  book.** 

— The  London  Daily  Ttlegtmph. 

A  Study  in  Shadows 

"Mr.  Locke  has  achieved  a  distinct  success  in  this  novel.  He  has 
struck  many  emotional  chords,  and  struck  them  all  with  a  firm, 
sure  hand.  In  the  relations  between  Katherine  and  Raine  he  had 
a  delicate  problem  to  handle,  and  he  has  handled  it  delicately." 

—The  Doily  Chronicle. 

The  White  Dove 

•  It  is  an  interesting  story.  The  characters  are  strongly  conceived 
and  vividly  presented,  and  the  dramatic  moments  are  powerfully 
reallxed."— -  The  Morning  Post. 

The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

44  Think  of  Locke's  clever  books.  Then  think  of  a  book  at  differ* 
cnt  from  any  ot  these  as  one  can  well  imagine — that  will  be  Mr. 
Locke's  new  book."— New  Yorh  World 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria 

**  William  J.  Locke's  novels  are  nothing  if  not  unusual  They  art 
marked  by  a  quaint  originality.  The  habitual  novel  reader  inevi- 
tably is  grateful  for  a  refreshing  sense  of  escaping  the  common- 
place path  of  conclusion." — Chicago  Record- Herald. 


EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 


The  Thief  of  Virtue  cloth.    i2»o.    $1.50 

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of  canvas  and  absolute  truth  to  life  are  the  primary  qualities  of  great 
realistic  fiction,  Mr.  Phillpotts  is  one  of  the  greatest  novelists  of  the 
day.  .  .  .  He  goes  on  turning  out  one  brilliant  novel  after 
another,  steadily  accomplishing  for  Devon  what  Mr.  Hardy  did  for 
Wessex.  This  is  another  of  Mr.  Phillpotts'  Dartmoor  novels,  and 
one  that  will  rank  with  his  best.  .  .  Something  of  kinship  with 
1  King  Lear'  and  '  Pere  Goriot.'  "  Chicago  Record  Herald. 

"The  Balzac  of  Dartmore.  It  is  easy  and  true  to  say  that  Mr. 
Phillpotts  in  all  his  work  has  done  no  single  piece  of  portraiture 
better  than  this  presentation  of  Philip  Ouldsbroom.  .  .  A  triumph 
of  the  novelist's  understanding  and  keen  drawing.  .  .  A  Dart- 
moor background  described  in  terms  of  an  artist's  deeply  felt 
appreciation.  — Ne<w  York  World. 

"No  other  English  writer  has  painted  such  facinating  and  colorful 
word-pictures  of  Dartmoor's  heaths  and  hills,  woods  and  vales,  and 
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attempted  such  vivid  character-portrayal  as  marks  this  latest  work 
from  beginning  to  end."  The  North  American. 

*'  A  strong  book,  flashing  here  and  there  with  beautiful  gems  of 
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philosophy."         — Jeanneti  e  L.  Gildlk  in  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

"It  is  no  dry  bones  of  a  chronicle,  but  touched  by  genius  to  life 
and  vividness.  "  — Louij-ville,  Kentucky,  Poit. 

"A  close,  thoughtful  study  of  universal  human  nature." 

—  The  Outlook. 

"  One  of  the  bes<  of  this  author's  many  works."     — The  Bo+kmsn. 


GILBERT  K.  CHESTERTON 

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All  Things  Considered 

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EDEN    PHILLPOTTS 

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— New  York  Tribune. 

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THE    COMPLETE  WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM  J.   LOCKE 

"Life   is  a   glorious  thing.** — W.  J.   Locke 

"If  you  wish  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  petty  cares  of  to-day,  read  one 
of  Locke's  novels.  You  may  select  any  from  the  following  titles 
and  be  certain  of  meeting  some  new  and  delightful  friends.  His 
characters  are  worth  knowing. ' ' — Baltimore  Sun. 

The  Morals  of  Marcua  Ordeyne  The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria  The  Beloved  Vagabond 

A  Study  in  Shadowa  The  White  Dove 

Simon  the  Jeater  The  Usurper 

Where  Love  la  Septimus 

Derelict*  Idols 

The  Glory  of  Clementina 

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Simon  the  Jester 

(Profusely  illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 

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It  is  a  novel  full  of  wit  and  action  and  life.  The  characters  are  all 
out-of-the-ordinary  and  splendidly  depicted;  and  the  end  is  an 
artistic  triumph — a  fitting  climax  for  a  story  that's  full  of  charm 
and  surprise.  " — American  Magazine. 

The  Beloved  Vagabond 

"  'The  Beloved  Vagabond'  is  a  gently-written,  fascinating  tale. 
Make  his  acquaintance  some  dreary,  rain-soaked  evening  and  find 
the  vagabond  nerve-thrilling  in  your  own  heart.  * ' 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

Septimus  (Illustrated  by  James  Montgomery  Flagg) 

"Septimus  is  the  joy  of  the  year. " — American  Magazine. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"One  of  those  rare  and  much-to-be-desired  stories  which  keep  one 
divided  between  an  interested  impatience  to  get  on  and  an  irresis- 
tible temptation  to  linger  for  full  enjoyment  by  the  way. ' ' — Life. 

Where  Love  Is 

"  One  of  those  unusual  novels  of  which  the  end  is  as  good  aa  the 
beginning, " — Nenv  York  Globe. 


PERPETUA 

BY 

DION  CLAYTON  CALTHROP 

12mo.  Cloth.  $1.30  net  Postage,  12  cents 

'  A  fantastic  tale  of  studio  and  travel  life  in  Europe  with 
a  diminutive  model  as  the  heroine.  Perpetua  is  a  charming 
personality  and  distinctly  worth  reading  about. " 

— Baltimore  Evening  Sun 

"It  really  is  a  delightful  romance,  so  full  of  tender  senti- 
ment and  gentle  humor  and  quiet  pathos  as  to  afford  genuine 
refreshment  to  the  world-weary  spirit;  and,  withal,  endowed 
with  a  good  plot,  well  handled." — Chicago  Record-Herald 

That  indefinable,  elusive  quality  called  style,  atmosphere 
— what  you  will — holds  your  heart  strings  in  an  unrelaxing 
grip.  One  does  not  often  hit  upon  a  book  like  'Perpetua,' 
and  when  one  does  one  should  treasure  it." 

— New  York  Herald 

The  whole  is  finely  woven,  making  a  compact,  beauti- 
ful   story,   with  a  wonderful    girl   as    the   central   character. 
Perpetua'  is  a  romance  that  will  allow  no  reader  to  relax  his 
attention  until  the  final  words  are  scanned." 

— Philadelphia  Record 

"A  genial  humor  permeates  this  likeable  little  story." 

— Detroit  Free  Press 

'The  story  is  written  in  beautiful,  poetic  language,  and 
is  replete  with  exquisite,  fanciful  ideas  and  descriptions.  As 
sweet  and  charming  as  its  own  piquant  heroine — full  of  a 
tender  humor  and  a  happy  irresponsibility  that  are  irresistible." 

— Pittsburg  Dispatch 


JOHN    LANE    CO.,    NEW   YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


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Ill 


PR 
5177      Phillpotts 
335__Tlia_Jajpafton. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  371  071 


PR 

5177 

B35 


